


Operating Procedures

by foxysquid



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Medical, Battle, Blood, Choking, Doctor/Patient, Fights, Galra Empire, Gladiators, Hallucinations, Human Experimentation, Imprisonment, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Alternating, Prison, Restraints, Romance, Serious Injuries, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Space Husbands, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-02-06 18:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxysquid/pseuds/foxysquid
Summary: Ulaz is a medical professional on a Galra warship, but he has another role, both more important and far more secret: he's a spy. As a physician, he takes a medical interest in the arena's most renowned alien gladiator. As a spy, he considers this warrior's possible use to the resistance.Yet as time passes, Ulaz's involvement with his patient grows, until it is no longer purely professional.Ulaz is always thinking ahead, but what he doesn't expect is that the gladiator will also take an interest in him.[Written for Shiro Week 2017, for the promptBreak/Mend, which obviously suggested a Doctor Ulaz AU to me. (I meant for this to be a gen one-shot, but I failed miserably on both counts,mea culpa.)]





	1. Blood Scent

The air smelled of blood, always. He inhaled, then snorted faintly. Blood wasn't a smell Ulaz found inherently unpleasant. Fighting and training were a necessary part of life, and they often involved broken skin and open wounds. There was honor and truth in combat, at its best. In his youth, sparring with his friends, Ulaz had enjoyed catching the scent of fresh blood on the air. It meant that the real challenge was about to begin.

He was no longer young, and this blood didn't smell fresh. That natural scent was aged here, and diluted and debased by other, less savory odors. How to name them all? Sweat and fear and infection and despair and worse. By the time all those elements blended, there wasn't much remaining that one could find joy in. Nonetheless, he didn't allow his distaste to show. His distaste never showed, no matter what had caused it.

Working with arena fighters wasn't an ideal appointment for a physician, but Ulaz made no complaint and no attempt to have himself reassigned. That was one reason they considered him an exemplary doctor. He did the work others avoided. His nose would adjust, and if it didn't, he would endure. In his position, he had unmatched opportunities to interact with the captives. In almost no other scenario would it be permitted for a Galra citizen to have prolonged and largely unmonitored contact with a member of one of the "inferior" species that had so graciously been allowed to take part in the public battles. Ulaz took care to observe all his patients carefully. That was his duty as a healer. Not that it was a duty that many took seriously here.

The coarse laughter of the guards died away as he approached. He outranked them, and it was rarely wise to offend a superior. The guards, in their dull gray uniforms, had gathered around one of the combatant cages and appeared to have gained some recreation out of prodding its occupant. "I don't want you making more work for me," Ulaz said. He didn't raise his voice, as many of the officers did, including his fellow medical officers.

"We didn't touch him—sir," one of them said, with an unconvincing salute.

"Good. Then if you're not doing anything now, you can escort him for me. He's to be moved."

"What?" The guard who spoke was the leader of this small unit. Ulaz would have known that by his faintly glowing shoulder insignia, if he hadn't already been aware of the fact, but he made a point of being aware of as much as possible. He knew all the guards' names. This was Horvk. "Now?" Horvk asked. He may not have wanted to offend a superior, but Ulaz wasn't as superior as certain others and could be tested slightly.

"That's right. He's become quite popular. I have my orders."

"Orders?" Horvk glanced up, asking a silent question of the ceiling, but those of higher rank couldn't be seen and appealed to simply by looking upwards, and Ulaz waited, calmly. Watching.

"All right, we'll move him. But he bites."

"His teeth aren't sharp."

"No, but I don't like it. And Barch got an infection from one of those bites."

" _Barch_ should have come to me for treatment."

"He's fine now."

Ulaz wished he could have been surprised that one of them had preferred living with a festering wound to seeing a doctor. "I"m so happy to hear that Barch has recovered. Do you want me to report that you've decided to disobey an order?"

"I said we'd do it, Doctor! We'll do it. But we're working with dead weight."

Without replying, Ulaz stepped around the guards and found the captive in question lying prone on the floor of his cage. "What's this...?" He leaned in closer, drawing in a breath. Beneath the ever present stink of old blood, he could smell that something was wrong. "Who's been giving him sedatives?"

"It wasn't us! We don't have the clearance."

"I know that," Ulaz snapped. He didn't consider Horvk and Barch and their comrades to be capable of administrating sedatives, even if they'd had the clearance. "I've told the arena overseers not to drug him." He didn't raise his voice, but there was no reason to suppress his annoyance. Any Galra would have been irritated, faced with such flagrant disregard of his orders. The problem was that he had no authority over the overseers, just as they had no authority over him. He exhaled sharply. The guards watched him, gathered in a wary semi-circle. "It looks like you'll have to carry him," said Ulaz.

"But—" Horvk and his guards shared an unhappy glance. At times like this, Ulaz almost wondered where the deadly and disciplined Galra military was hiding itself, but he knew how dangerous these guards could be under certain circumstances, and he knew these were the soldiers who so far had failed to rise through the ranks. Not exactly the elite.

"I know," said Ulaz with insincere understanding. "I've heard. He bites. But it's my medical opinion that he's not going to wake up within the next few minutes."

"Really?"

"That's my medical opinion. But I can't speak for what might happen once those few minutes are up."

"Yes! Sir!" At the thought of avoiding possible bites, they rallied. Barch—who had once been bitten—was set apart by being the slowest to act, but he made a brave show of bringing up the rear once the weight of the prisoner had been distributed among his fellow guards.

Ulaz's medical opinion had been well founded. The prisoner didn't awaken until he was inside his new cell, with the door closed and locked. By that point, he was also restrained, and the guards had departed. Ulaz was aware of the moment the captive opened his eyes. His anger was palpable and lowered the temperature of the room by a few degrees—or that's how it felt. It wasn't a warm room or a warm welcome.

"What do you want?" the prisoner snarled. He was caked with blood and dirt. This was the fighter they called Champion. He was unusually gifted at arena combat, a talent that rarely surfaced among the captives forced into the ring. Ulaz had treated him before, but he was unsure whether Champion would have recognized him. The arena participants—the unwilling ones—were often given a variety of drugs that could easily impair their memories. As if the psychological stress and physical pain weren't impairment enough.

"I'm your physician."

"Physician? That's a joke."

Ulaz wasn't widely known among his colleagues for his sense of humor, and he didn't respond to this remark. "You're suffering the ill effects of sedatives you shouldn't have been dosed with. I need to treat you." 

Ulaz hadn't taken a step toward Champion yet, and he was already struggling in his bonds. He wouldn't be able to break them, but he was expending a great deal of energy in the attempt. Ulaz didn't doubt that a bite would be the least of his concerns, if this prisoner were able to break free. "I understand that you don't trust me," Ulaz said. "You have no reason to. But I don't intend to harm you."

"You make—too many jokes."

That was a criticism he didn't often find himself faced with. "You'll be glad to hear I won't need to touch you." He did need to close the gap between them, and Champion's struggling intensified as he approached. "This will neutralize the drug, at least somewhat," Ulaz said, keeping his voice steady and low.

"Get away from me!"

Ignoring this demand, Ulaz held up a long, thin metallic tube. When he pressed a button on its side, its tip lit up, bright red, sending out a single, unwavering beam. Ulaz pointed the light at Champion, and he winced. But he would feel no pain as the light enveloped him, held him for an instant, then blinked out. "That should take effect in just a few minutes."

"What do you want? Where am I?"

Not only was he displaced, but he was disoriented. In the arena, treatment of the prisoners was erratic and varied based on who was on duty. Some of the overseers were far too interested in pharmaceuticals. They administered drugs with little, if any, concern for the varying physiological makeups of so many disparate species. They used drugs to make people more aggressive. Then to make them less aggressive again. Then more aggressive. It was infuriating to consider the entire pointless cycle. "You've been moved to new accommodations."

"Why?"

"There are those who have taken an interest in you."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Nor should you." They weren't being recorded in this room. There was no video or audio feed. It was private, or as private as a prisoner's accommodation could be.

Champion let out a long breath. He licked his lips, which were dry and cracked. His species had soft, thin skin. He seemed to be processing Ulaz's response. "I—appreciate the affirmation." 

He was starting to sound calmer. The sedative had, at first, sedated him too much. A near-comatose state had been followed by a period of overexcitement. It was a reaction Ulaz had seen before. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Champion paused to assess his condition. "I do feel better," he admitted, in a tone of bewilderment. "What did you do to me?"

"I used a device that can neutralize certain substances in the bloodstream."

"You really are a physician?"

"As I said."

"I thought you people only had torturers."

"We do have a fair number of torturers," Ulaz admitted.

"Was that a joke?" Champion's voice hadn't softened, but the intensity of its hardness had lessened. Some of the hatred was receding. 

Ulaz shook his head. Yes, there had been the smallest particle of sarcasm in his response, and it wasn't as if he'd never told a joke in his life, but it was a simple fact: the Galra Empire employed a great many torturers.

"I still don't trust you."

"I wouldn't expect you to. I'm sure you won't believe this, but my aim is purely to cure sickness, wherever I find it." He didn't consider those words a lie, although there were those who might have thought them misleading. Some sicknesses inhabited the body, and some were societal. "My name is Ulaz."

"Ulaz." Champion repeated him, experimentally, but didn't offer his own name. Ulaz didn't ask him for it.

"I'm going to do a brief examination." Most physicians in his position wouldn't have bothered offering this information before moving to do their work, but Ulaz could see how tense his patient still was.

"Why don't you remove my restraints first?"

"I'm not going to do that. It's unnecessary." Ulaz was a seasoned warrior, and he was confident in his abilities, but he had no desire to engage Champion in combat and risk injury to one or both of them. Champion would fight again soon, but Ulaz would not be his opponent. He took out his scanner and moved it deftly over the patient's body, taking a reading. This wouldn't be the best possible baseline to have on record, but it would do for now. There wasn't going to be a period when this patient was at optimal health. Ulaz waited for the scanner to process, then studied the results displayed on the screen. This was the first time he'd had the opportunity to examine Champion thoroughly. General health and well-being weren't his superiors' concerns. What was expected of Ulaz, in this role, was that he keep the prisoners in fighting condition, until they died.

Champion's species did differ from Galra, expectedly, but at this preliminary stage of evaluation, he found no surprises. He'd treated a wide range of patients and was conversant in the medical treatment of many more species than an average Galra physician. Champion had been injured in his last battle, but his wounds were very minor. Cuts and scrapes. If Champion were an officer, Ulaz could have healed even these small hurts, but minor injuries to alien arena fighters weren't to be treated. It was deemed a wasted effort. Ulaz was mindful of the standard operating procedures. "Good. That will be all for today."

"Are you going to leave me like this, in here?"

"I have no choice in the matter." Ulaz didn't want him to suffer, but the reports of his violence and biting were widespread. Someone had decided that this would be a better way to keep him contained. Or else there was another reason for the move, which hadn't been communicated to Ulaz. It wasn't as a result of his doctor's orders. Ulaz wasn't worried about being bitten. Biting was the act of a cornered person.

"Ulaz."

Ulaz glanced up from his scanner. "Yes?"

"Why did you tell me your name?"

He had done so because he was interested in this prisoner. He was curious about him and his potential. He had offered something of himself based on the fact that he might someday want something in return. To create a connection, however slight. But he wasn't about to admit to that. He wasn't the kind of person to discuss his motivations openly. Especially not here or now. "I have no reason not to."

"No one else here has _introduced_ themselves to me."

No. They wouldn't have. It was not a situation Ulaz had ever been in, but he could imagine himself in it: torn away from home and planet and everything familiar, and thrust into a hostile environment, in which he was treated as an inferior creature, little more than an animal. Although Champion's actions proved he was far more than animal. It was clear that he had had extensive training, most likely military. Among his people, he must have been viewed as exceptional. Yet he hadn't been treated with the respect one owed a fellow soldier, even an enemy. Not that Champion had been an enemy, until he'd been attacked without provocation. One of the Empire's accomplishments was its unparalleled ability to create enemies. Who else had ever earned so many enemies, over such a long period of time? "I can't speak for the actions of anyone else here." 

"No, I guess you can't."

Champion still had spirit. He was strong and skilled and a strategist. Not a Galra, but an ideal soldier. His record of survival in the arena was impressive. Even now, beneath the blood spatter and grime on his face, he was surveying Ulaz intently, as Ulaz did the same to him. Champion had different facial features and a different skin color, and rather odd rounded ears, but he wasn't so alien that Ulaz couldn't read his expressions. He was sure that Champion couldn't read his face in turn. Few people could, even among his own race. "I'll leave you now," he said.

"Wait. Ulaz. When will they be back for me? How long will they leave me tied up like this?"

Champion liked to use his name, now that it had been given to him. Ulaz wondered why, as his gaze flickered over Champion's body. He was laid out on his back across a long table. Dim light from above washed over him, staining him red. The restraints were smooth, and Ulaz had made sure that they weren't too tight, but he knew that being bound like that was detrimental, physically and mentally. "I can't answer that."

He was aware that Champion might die at any point. He might be gutted in the arena, in front of the crowd, or someone of sufficient rank might decide that it would be amusing to kill him in a more private setting. Death was always present, always waiting at one's side, even in a situation less hazardous than this. Yet Ulaz allowed himself to admit that, if Champion didn't die, he might be useful. 

Ulaz didn't bother with a farewell. He turned and left. As he entered the hall, he breathed in through his nose, taking olfactory stock of his surroundings—a matter of habit. Blood, still. There was always blood. It hung in the air. Yet as the door closed behind him, Ulaz was aware of how the smell had shifted, from one step to the next, between the cell and the corridor. In that room, he'd learned the scent of Champion's blood, as distinct from all other scents.


	2. Countdown

_One._

He started counting in an attempt to focus his mind. Numbers were ingrained in him, one of the first concepts he'd ever been taught. One and one is two. He could hardly remember a time before he'd learned to count. Those first, earliest childhood memories were fractured and doubtful. He might have fabricated them later: the pattern on a blanket, the smell of apples, the texture of the inside of a bowl. The pink petals of flowers, brushing against his skin. The smell of his mother's hair.

No, he had to count, to remember the clear act and the rationality of counting: numbering and limiting. His mind was becoming too much like those impossibly ancient memories from a time that was unbounded, scattered and insecure.

_Two._

The walls closing in on him were dark, metallic. There was a sour smell in the air. Was it rising from his own skin? His clothes were rank, his skin covered with a film of sweat and—he didn't want to think of what else it might be. They did bother to clean him from time to time, with a high-powered blast of water or two, but the process did more to make him miserable than to make him clean.

There was a shout in the hallway. It wasn't the first time he'd heard a shout. He heard murmurs, calls, groans. Rarely could he make out words. At times there was only silence. The silence was worse than the sounds.

_Three._

Silence, then footsteps in the hall. Then silence again. He kept forgetting to count. His head was swimming. Drowning. He was lost. What had they done to him? He couldn't remember. He had to keep counting, to hold onto that, as if it were a line through the deep. He couldn't lose track. He couldn't lose himself.

_Four, five, six._

He was improving. His count was steadier now. He managed to concentrate on the numbers until they no longer dissolved into the mist. He kept counting until the footsteps returned. They were a regularity that he could focus on. They gave the world—the world of the ship—a semblance of order. When he could focus, and he could keep his counting steady and regular, he could measure the time between when the footsteps faded and when they started to approach again. He couldn't always focus that well.

He was alone here. This cell was better than the last one, where size and condition were concerned, but there were restraints here. There was a table that they strapped him to. He was strapped to it now. Having been moved to a better cell was more a cause for concern than of pleasure.

Why had they done it?

What did they want?

The footsteps returned, but it was too soon. Had the pattern changed, or had he lost track? No, these were different than the regular march past his door. These steps went up to the door and paused. Shiro started to struggle as the door open, but he failed to break free. He always failed. He kept trying. He could sense the change in the light as the door opened and then closed again, but he couldn't see who was there. His vision was blurry. They must have done something to him.

"You're wasting your strength."

The voice was a low rasp, and Shiro felt a surge of hatred. He hated all of them. He wanted to fight them all. "I won't stop."

"I know, but these bonds can't be broken by strength alone."

"I have to."

"I might say to do it if it helps you, but you're injured, so lie still."

Oh. Was it the doctor? He hadn't realized, at first. No one but the doctor talked to him that way. Only the doctor had ever offered his name by way of introduction. Acknowledging that he was talking to a person. Shiro stilled automatically, without any awareness that he was doing as the doctor had asked.

"You've been wounded, do you know that?" The doctor's voice was always calm. Shiro had never heard much feeling in it. It was odd to think of a Galra doctor. He associated them more with brutality and cruelty, more likely to make a wound than to heal it, but they must have had some use for healers themselves. He was aware that he was only being patched up so that he could continue to fight, to entertain them. He was their performing animal.

The doctor didn't wait for an answer. "I'm going to have to close this wound. It's not life threatening, but it's very deep." 

Shiro felt a touch ghost against his neck, and he started to fight against his restraints again. "Don't touch me!"

The doctor continued to speak in his low voice. "I'm going to have to make some contact. Ordinarily I wouldn't need to for a procedure like this, but I don't have the authorization to use my full range of equipment on patients of your status. You've already lost a great deal of blood. Now lie still. I need to prepare you."

Yes. That film on him. He was covered in blood. He was conscious of it now. How had he forgotten? Injured though he was, part of him wanted to keep fighting against his restraints and the Galra both, but he was growing weaker, so he rested, fighting to take in breath instead. He endured the feel of the Galra's hands on his neck. He didn't want any of them to touch him, but at least these short touches were light and brief, lasting no longer than was necessary.

"You're in a daze now," the doctor went on, matter-of-factly, "but you're going to feel a great deal of pain very shortly. I'm also not authorized to anesthetize you."

The lack of anesthesia wasn't as remarkable as the doctor's behavior. When he was working, he had a habit of narrating what he was about to do, as if to prepare and reassure Shiro. There was absolutely no reason for him to do that. No one else here bothered to speak to him at all. They spoke at him or about him. Was it because Ulaz was a doctor? Could a Galra have a medical code of ethics that he abided by? "Ulaz," he said.

"That's right. Now. It's time."

In this prison, Shiro avoided showing any sign that he was experiencing pain. He had no wish to give any Galra the added satisfaction of seeing him suffer, but if Ulaz had wanted to see that, he was in the right role. Shiro started to scream. The doctor had said that his life wasn't in danger, but he no longer remembered or believed that, writhing beneath his restraints, no longer in an attempt to escape, but in a simple expression of agony. " _Ulaz!_ "

"Not my name. Don't say my name. Not that."

In another moment, it didn't matter what he said, as he lost the ability to say anything. He stopped speaking, hearing, thinking, seeing.

When he woke, the doctor was still there, standing over him. Shiro's vision had cleared enough that he could watch the doctor watching him wake up. He stared up at him dully, unable to respond in any meaningful way, asking himself how long Ulaz had been waiting there. Had Shiro passed out for minutes or hours? He had no way of knowing, unless Ulaz told him.

"They should have called me sooner," Ulaz said. "The blood loss was the real concern. I'd have difficulty synthesizing more blood for you. It's not that we can't, but it's unlikely they'd allow it."

Ulaz had stayed with him. He was talking to Shiro, like any doctor to a patient, although the need for "synthesizing blood" might not have come up in the office of a practitioner on Earth. Shiro didn't reply, but he managed to remain focused on the doctor. His lips felt dry, but he couldn't lick them.

"Can you hear me?" Ulaz asked. "Blink once if you can."

Shiro blinked.

"Now twice," said Ulaz.

That required more concentration of Shiro, but he wasn't about to let himself fail. He blinked twice.

"Good. I'll tell you what happened. I healed your wound. It's usually not such a taxing process, but without any analgesic or anesthetic, it takes a toll. You've come through it well. I won't need to touch you again." He'd made a point of mentioning that, but he didn't linger on the point. "Three times, now."

Shiro blinked three times in short succession, and he found that, instead of more difficult, it had become easier to focus. He kept his eyes on Ulaz, and Ulaz did the same for him. "Your body should be able to complete the healing on its own, although it will take a few days." He stood very still, and Shiro wondered how he'd never noticed before that the doctor had the bearing of a fighter. As a military doctor, he must have had military training, but there was a magnitude to his alertness and a fierceness in his posture that he wouldn't have expected from a medical officer. 

But he was a Galra. They were vicious. The question of Ulaz's bearing slid away from Shiro quickly, as so many thoughts did when he was in his state.

"Four times," said Ulaz. "And breathe. Slowly."

Was it Ulaz who had given him the idea of counting? Had this happened before? There was a familiarity to it, as unlikely as it was: the Galra leading, and Shiro following: into the cool rationality of numbers, which had no emotions attached, and no pain. He wouldn't have said that he could _relax_ here, but his tension had lessened, which was the best he could expect.

"Are you able to speak?" Ulaz asked.

Shiro didn't know if he could, but he tried. "Yes," was the word he attempted to say, because there was a trace of optimism remaining in him. He thought he'd managed to be comprehensible. 

Ulaz inclined his head. For having spent so much time among the Galra, Shiro knew relatively little about them. They rarely told him anything. What he knew, he had largely gleaned from overhearing conversations between them, or from speaking with his fellow prisoners, when he'd been housed with them. Shiro had noticed a great deal of physical variation among the Galra that he'd seen. While some were almost feline in appearance, others were not. Shiro was tempted to think of Ulaz as being more reptilian, but he knew it was a mistake to compare them to anything on Earth. Incorrect assumptions might impair his judgment when he was fighting them. He would fight this doctor too, if that meant winning his escape. But there was no question of fighting him now. Shiro finally managed to muster the strength to lick his lips.

"Count backward from ten," said Ulaz.

This had to be a kind of mind focusing technique. Was it meant to function in the absence of all medicinal pain reliever, to provide relief through mental clarity? As simple as it was, it did give him something else to concentrate on, so he counted. _Ten, nine..._ Was he speaking aloud or not? 

All at once, the voice counting down was no longer his own, but mentally, he continued to say the numbers in unison with it. With her. He should have known the name of the woman who was speaking. She was one of the mission control personnel, but he'd forgotten the shape of her face and the syllables that shaped her name. What he hadn't forgotten was the sound of her voice in the moments before the rocket launched. The launch team should have been calling out their checklist, too, but for some reason, there was only the one voice, the single string of numbers descending.

_Ten, nine, eight..._

He could just see Matt and Dr. Holt from where he was sitting. He shared a grin with Matt. Dr. Holt's smile was more understated, but no less evident. The mission was going according to plan. The weather was perfect, the sky as blue as a promise, and all systems checked out. The lights that were supposed to be on were brightly lit. Those that were supposed to be off were dark. There were no problems, except that the restraints keeping him safely in place were too tight, tighter than he remembered from training.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," said Matt. He wasn't secured any more, pacing freely around the ship, that piercingly pensive look on his face that was so particularly Matt's. Shiro knew that it was dangerous for him to be out of his seat now, but he couldn't work out how to convey that fact to Matt. "But it's a simple matter of memorizing the correct sequence of numbers." 

"You're drifting." Someone else spoke softly, out of view. "Come back to me."

Shiro didn't want to follow that voice. He gripped his chair. He wanted to be where he was. The mission was about to begin. Everything would go well. They'd make history, and then, after months of freeze dried meals, they could go home.

That voice behind him was implacable. It wouldn't leave him. "There's an impulse to draw away from the pain, but stay here."

Matt and Dr. Holt started to fade. Their smiles grew transparent. _No._ Shiro didn't want to go, but he finally let the other, colder voice take him. Because it was rational. It wasn't lying to him. He turned his head, and the Galra doctor was standing there. Shiro couldn't read his eyes. It could be difficult to tell where Galra were looking, let alone what they were feeling. "What do you want?" Shiro asked him. It wasn't the first time he'd asked him that, during the course of their odd acquaintanceship. 

Usually Ulaz didn't ask him for anything in response, but this time was different. "I want you to count backward, from ten. With me."

A stubborn part of him balked at cooperating with a Galra, even in something so insignificant, but when he spoke again, for a second time he said: "Yes." 

"Don't go back to where you were before," said Ulaz. "No matter where you were." He started to count: "Ten."

Shiro said it too, a beat later. It would have been nice to go back to where he used to be, nicer than almost anything, but it was true that he couldn't escape that way. He had to deal with where and when he was. That was his only chance of escaping in reality.

Ulaz waited before saying _nine_ , pacing himself so that they said it in unison, Shiro's voice and the Galra's falling in the same moment on the same word. Their actual languages must have been very different, but they shared the same concept of numbers. _Eight, seven._ In translation, it sounded like they were saying the same thing. _Six, five, four._ They counted down, and Shiro felt what could only be called a connection to this person who was trying to help him. This was his first genuine experience of interspecies communication. He hadn't thought it would be like this. _Three, two._ None of what had transpired was in line with what he would have envisioned, if he'd been been asked to come up with a scenario for first contact. But this was where he was, and this was what had happened.

_One._


	3. One Unprecedented Alien

Unlike so many of his fellow Galra, Ulaz didn't enjoy the spectacle of the arena. It wasn't mandatory to attend the fights, but anyone who avoided them entirely would be looked upon with confusion that could deepen to suspicion—particularly someone in Ulaz's position. He had a practical reason to attend: a fair number of the participants were his patients. The double-edged blade of his occupation both sent him into the arena and kept him away from it. He was expected to observe the condition of his charges in the ring, but his workload in the prison cells and elsewhere on the ship often gave him an excuse to stay away.

Ulaz did enjoy the art of fighting, but to see it so marred by cruelty, sadism, arrogance, and petty grudges didn't bring him any pleasure. There had been a time when a Galra battle had meant something. When it had been worth seeing.

The crowd pressed in on all sides, eager to witness what would transpire within the ring. They were noisy already, before anyone had appeared for them to cheer on or mock. As a Galra and an officer, Ulaz had his place in the first tier of seats. Spectators from other species were relegated to the higher seats, farther from the fighting. Some were so distant, it was unlikely they'd make out anything but the bobbing and weaving of tiny specks on a distant field. What did they gain from attending? Did they earnestly enjoy it, or were they trying to win favor with the empire? Ulaz suspected a combination of the two, but he wasn't planning to survey the non-Galrans. Perhaps by watching as willing spectators, they thought they could ward off the possibility that they or their families might someday be forced to fight. They were wrong.

Many fighters were willing too, but a large percentage of them had no choice. The involuntary participants were often little more than a source of brief amusement for the crowd, the trifle to whet their appetite. They died quickly, but not painlessly. Ulaz took no joy in the spectacle of their deaths, but he was in the minority. A consistent pall of of blood and fear cloaked the arena, but the cheers of the crowd usually drowned out the screams of the dying.

That was the way of the arena. He found few surprises there, but recently—everyone had received a shock, himself included.

As he waited for the coming production, Ulaz became aware of a familiar scent in his proximity. Not only that, but a shape and a way of moving. He didn't have to turn his head to recognize the person who came to stand at his side. The well-known didn't need that visual confirmation. It was also better not to appear to be too familiar with him. Some bonds were better left unknown to the public.

"Do you think he'll win again today?" The question from the person beside him was casual and not uncommon. It was the kind of question many people were asking, so Ulaz looked at him then, as he might have glanced at any stranger making conversation.

Thace's expression was similarly impersonal. No one would have had reason to suspect the two of them were friends. It wasn't that friendship was forbidden, but if one of them should ever be uncovered as a traitor, it was close associates who would be scrutinized first. They were cautious comrades, but what kept them apart was what gave them an affinity for each other. They couldn't have cared for each other without being united in treason, but because of it, their friendship was measured out in suspicions and certainties. 

"There's a good chance he will," Ulaz said.

"Have you bet on that?"

"I'm not _that_ sure." Talking to a fellow Blade introduced another layer of meaning to a simple exchange. They couldn't openly discuss whether Champion would be useful to their cause. In secret, yes, but arranging secret meetings was more difficult, considering their disparate posts.

Ulaz remained very aware of Thace's scent, which was faintly earthy and familiar and reminded him of better, earlier times. He suspected those past years struck him as better ones because he had lost so much less, back then. To look at it another way, he had less to lose now, which made him a keener Blade. As he savored the scent, he was surprised to feel a low, warm pulse of desire. He suppressed it quickly. Active Blades had to be careful to avoid distractions. They were a weakness.

What was this mood that had been on him lately? He was more agitated than he could remember being, since he was very young. He hadn't gone so far that he'd become impulsive, as he hadn't acted on any of the impulses that had arisen in him, but these inexplicable urges were noticeably more frequent than usual. His emotions were more easily unsettled. He was skilled enough at managing his feelings that he didn't worry that a passing tremor of unease or want would go so far as to affect his actions, but he had cause to be wary of the change in himself.

Should he mention it to Kolivan? No, it couldn't be that significant. It was normal to experience strain from remaining in deep cover for extended periods of time. To establish oneself in a role like those he and Thace were now filling required years of patience and careful, diligent effort. There would be more difficult days. It was to be expected. He would rise to the challenge, and the challenge would fall before him.

Ulaz was self-aware enough to understand that these assured thoughts were his attempt to convince himself, rather than pure self-confidence, but it was important, when on a mission like his, to accept one's weaknesses and make these mental efforts to counter them.

"So you're not planning to bet on him," Thace asked, likely unaware that Ulaz was not as calm as he was careful to appear.

"I might, but not yet."

"Why is that?"

"Better to wait for a match with more at stake. The win will be greater."

Some, even now, saw betting as cheapening the arena games, which were historically a matter of honorable combat more than commerce, but betting wasn't forbidden. Not that Ulaz was planning to bet in actuality. He wouldn't have objected to doing so, if that were needed to give a certain kind of impression, but betting was more useful as a topic that offered him and Thace a means of discussing something else entirely.

"How will you know when to risk it?" asked Thace.

That was the problem. This alien, this _Champion _, was so unprecedented that it was difficult to determine what to do with him. His presence had to be significant, but how could it be utilized to their advantage?__

__What was astounding was the way Galra responded to Champion. They were interested. They enjoyed his performances. True, many of them were hoping to see him fail spectacularly, in a rain of blood, but they were engaged to the point that they _cared_ about him as an individual and about what he did. Ulaz couldn't remember this happening before with another alien, not to this extent. The crowd liked to applaud their Galra heroes. _ _

__His name alone showed how unique he was: _Champion_. Ulaz wasn't sure if it was the other fighters or the crowd who had started to call him that, after his first great victory. Accounts varied, but what was undeniable was the fact that everyone did call him that, and they had begun to do so almost at once._ _

__This phenomenon was as concerning as it was fascinating. Ulaz knew that the Blade of Marmora couldn't be the only ones who had noticed this alien and considered that his difference could be used. In the Empire, people and processes were regular and regulated. That which stood out as different or unique was either utilized or destroyed. There were few exceptions._ _

__The crowd's murmuring increased to a low roar, indicating that the battles were about to begin, and that further conversation would be difficult. Noise wasn't a significant hurdle for Ulaz and Thace. They'd already communicated a great deal of information through their brief sentences, as well as certain words and glances, slight signals transmitted through what looked like ordinary body language. There were many ways to communicate in person, which made physical meetings so useful, in spite of the risks of being seen to have a social connection. The time for socializing done, both of them acted in unison with the crowd, so as not to stand out. When it roared, they roared._ _

__The first event was a predictable opener. A handful of prisoners was herded into the ring. There were five of them, of varying species. Ulaz could tell by their movements that they had little, if any, training as fighters. They could have been farmers or merchants or technicians. He had no way of knowing; all differences in occupation or station had been eradicated by the identical dark clothing they were forced to wear._ _

__Ulaz had an expectation for what would happen next, and he was not proven wrong. One of the professional gladiators followed the prisoners into the ring, and what ensued was nothing but slaughter. The crowd and the prisoners both screamed, but the crowd had more force and more joy. From Ulaz's seat in the first tier, the scents of fear and blood grew overwhelming. He couldn't look away or betray the disgust he felt. The gladiator, who found this an easy conflict, decided to challenge himself by killing his victims in the showiest display possible. The arena floor was scattered with limbs and darkened by blood._ _

__When the gladiator had finished, he raised his thick, pale gray arms, and the light gleamed across their undersides. The throng bellowed with one voice. The cleanup following that "match" took longer than the massacre itself had. These spectacles were rarely novel. The old traditions, warped as they had become, endured._ _

__It was Champion who had offered them a newness, ever since his first fight. He had been expected to lose. On that day, the ushering of prisoners into the ring, one by one, had been intended to serve as an opening act, like the vicious one Ulaz had just witnessed. That was the usual role of prisoners' matches. Yet Champion, instead of dying for the spectators' entertainment, had defeated one of the empire's most feared and admired gladiators._ _

__As he stepped out into view of the audience, the light in Champion's eyes was purely fierce, nearly feral. The spectators had never seen him asleep or weak with delirium, as Ulaz had. Champion didn't meet Ulaz's gaze or make any noticeable attempt to pick out individuals. The spectators likely appeared as a single mass to him, with no individuation among them. Ulaz couldn't check his patient's vital signs from this distance, but it was likely that Champion had been dosed with drugs to make him more aggressive or enhance his performance. He didn't require enhancements, but the chemical "enhancements" were in line with the empire's view of the universe. They saw Champion as inferior, even as he continued to defeat them. He was something to be altered, meddled with, until they were satisfied with him. He would be ill, later._ _

__What would happen if Champion lost? The answer was that the Blade of Marmora would continue as it had for centuries. There was still no way of telling, ultimately, how Champion might benefit them. But if Champion did lose, Ulaz was sure that loss would mean they'd missed a great opportunity._ _

__Champion wasn't facing another trained fighter today. The arena authorities had gone for another of their standards, instead. The crowd clamored as a beast burst into the ring. Long and reptilian, with an inky black hide that glittered in the light, it was several times the size of Champion, and it was fast. It flowed like water toward its opponent, then paused to raise its head and hiss, baring long, curved fangs like a serpent's. Ulaz didn't doubt that it was venomous._ _

__This conflict wasn't what would be considered a "fair" fight, but these battles never were. They were pushing him to find his limit, and they were indulging the crowd with a variety of impressive displays, to keep them entertained._ _

__Champion had only a long, electrified staff to defend himself with. Having showed its fangs, the creature leapt toward the gladiator, aiming its mouth for his neck. Champion remained motionless in the face of this rush much longer than most people, including Galra, would have dared. At the last moment in which it was possible, he pivoted, evading the strike. His staff swung out, striking the creature in a soft spot where its neck met its head._ _

__It screeched, a grating sound like claws raking metal. Its body thrashed, and it lashed out, biting at Champion. He had already leapt away. Their struggle continued like that, with the creature lunging and Champion evading. Retreat and repeat—but the throng didn't grow bored, screaming with every new assault._ _

__They screamed loudest when Champion, dodging one strike which caused the beast to over-extend itself, vaulted up onto its muscular neck and drove his staff down into what observation of his opponent must have told him was a weak point on the back of its head. The creature scratched savagely at its neck with its front claws. Champion was already leaping to the ground to escape, but a claw caught him in the thigh. His responding wince was visible, but brief. He was able to dismount and get clear before the broad, snakelike head managed to catch him in its jaws._ _

__Champion was injured now, which visibly impacted his speed, but his risk had been worthwhile. His latest attack had badly injured the reptile, which let out a thin but piercing moan. A strong charge to a sensitive area so close to its brain had had a devastating effect. It hissed and struck out blindly, lashing its tail. Foam, probably toxic, dripped from its mouth._ _

__Pressing his advantage, Champion closed in again, keeping clear of the foam spatter. His staff struck the beast's eye. There was a sizzle, and the scent of blood was joined by the stench of electrified flesh. Champion struck again and again, driving his staff into the eye socket as the creature writhed in its death throes. Was the desperation in his blows due to the aggression-heightening drugs they were in the habit of giving him, or was this a grimly determined attempt to put the creature out of its misery as quickly as possible? The crowd took it for aggression and egged him on with jeers and cries._ _

__When Champion finally stilled, his expression was a blank, and the creature was dead. What was Champion thinking? Ulaz had never seen any sign that he took pleasure in killing. More than anything else, he looked tired. He didn't raise his arms in victory. He silently allowed the crowd's rioting to wash over him roughly, like a rock standing in the sea. Ulaz could tell by his stance that he was favoring one leg, and he thought of the claw that had caught him._ _

__Ulaz turned toward Thace, capturing the entirety of him within his gaze. He wouldn't be able to wish him well or express himself as he'd like to. Most of the other Galra here could greet or bid farewell to their companions. They faced restrictions under the regime, but they also had freedoms that were denied him, by his own choice. They could see their friends. They could mate. What was that experience like, partnering with someone so closely? That would be another kind of risk._ _

__Ulaz wasn't dissatisfied with the life he had chosen. He didn't regret his choice, but he'd allowed himself to consider certain ramifications of it, lately. It was unusual for him to do that, but perhaps his fellow Blades asked themselves the same questions. It was one topic they wouldn't discuss with each other: the alternatives to the path they had taken._ _

__This time, Ulaz accepted the unusual thoughts as his own. Some ideas had to be pushed away, but others should be allowed to remain. Examining an idea and dissecting it rationally could be a better way to eliminate it than simple suppression. The trick was knowing which course of action was best for which idea. He had been favoring suppression, but maybe this was the wiser choice._ _

__Still, it was strange to think of such things now—friendship and mating. All this flashed into his mind and out of it again in moments, far too quickly for Thace to have guessed at his unusual preoccupations._ _

__"I should go," Ulaz said. "He's injured." The crowd was cheering loudly enough for him to aim this comment directly at Thace. No one was paying enough attention to them to analyze how close they might be to each other or the meaning in the way their gazes met. "I must tend to him."_ _

__Ulaz knew where to go, and the arena staff knew where to take their best gladiator. By the time Ulaz had gathered his equipment and reached Champion's cell, his patient was already waiting for him. He was loosely bound today. Only his wrists were restrained. An arena medic had made some effort to bandage his wound and stanch the flow of blood, but they had left the difficult work for Ulaz. He didn't mind that. He was the one with the skills for that work._ _

__They had left Champion on the floor. His wound was poorly bound, and the bandage was stained. Ulaz knelt beside him. The pain, or the drugs, or both, had already proved too much for Champion. Sweat stood on his skin, and his breathing was shallow, but at a glance, Ulaz found no reason to believe that his life was in danger. He unwrapped the wound. It wasn't as deep as he feared, and there was no sign that it was affected by any kind of venom._ _

__Champion stirred when Ulaz began to scan him. His eyelids lifted, then fell. "Matt?" he murmured._ _

__It wasn't the first time Shiro had mistakenly called him by that name. As he always did, Ulaz corrected him. "No, it's Ulaz. I'm here to treat you."_ _

__"I wondered where you'd gone," said Champion._ _

__Ulaz frowned. Had Champion registered what he'd said? It was true that he hadn't tended to him for a few days, but he found it difficult to believe that Champion would have taxed himself with thoughts of Ulaz's whereabouts. "I'm here now."_ _

__"I missed you. I was so worried."_ _

__"I'm not Matt," said Ulaz, pronouncing the human name carefully, despite its simplicity. He hesitated over whether it would be better to neutralize the drugs first or treat the wound. The chemicals did have a significant negative impact, but Champion might become hostile and agitated once they were neutralized, which would do his injured leg no favors. If he could heal the wound quickly first, that might be for the best._ _

__"Matt, I can't move my arms," Champion said. A note of distress had crept into his voice. "What's wrong with me? What happened?"_ _

__"You'll be fine," said Ulaz. He was sure he didn't sound anything like the person Champion thought he was, but Champion was too distressed to realize it and didn't listen, instead startling to struggle against his restraints._ _

__Ulaz didn't want to restrain him further, but he hesitated to release him. "Will you please lie still?"_ _

__"No—I just want to—" What Champion said next was incomprehensible, more a jumble of words than a sentence._ _

__"Do it for me." For Matt, he meant, hoping Champion's confusion could at least be helpful. "If you lie still, I'll free your arms. Can you understand that?" Ulaz wasn't hopeful about Champion's current ability to comprehend what he was told, but to his surprise, Champion immediately ceased struggling. Ulaz had his doubts about this course of action, but he wanted to undo Champion's restraints, so he did. Maybe it would calm him, if he were able to rest more freely._ _

__Champion then surprised Ulaz a second time by reaching out to take his hand. His grip wasn't strong now, considering what a physically powerful individual he was. His touch was light. "You can be honest with me. I'm not doing well, am I, Matt?"_ _

__"You'll be fine," Ulaz repeated. He didn't want to mislead him, but even if he'd wanted to deceive Champion as to his identity, he knew so little about this Matt. He couldn't have begun to guess at what he might have said._ _

__"Will you talk to me? I just want to talk."_ _

__"We can talk," said Ulaz. Champion's fingers were warm in his hand. A little damp. He wasn't sure if that was normal for this species. He wanted to make himself clearer, so he clarified his identity again. "But I'm not Matt."_ _

__"Do you think we'll ever go home?"_ _

__He was supposed to be treating him. His scan was finished. He had to see to his wound now. He released Champion's hand from his own, hoping there would be no objections. He needed both hands free. He had to attach the regenerator to the leg. He was careful, as always, to keep his touches as light and quick as possible. "I'll keep reminding you that I'm not who you think I am. I don't have a home to return to," Ulaz said. "As to whether you'll return—I'm unable to make a prediction." Probably not, he wanted to say. If this had been anyone but Champion, his unvoiced answer would have been _definitely_ not. _ _

__"Don't say that. We'll get back. I promise you."_ _

__Ulaz didn't respond to that. Champion's situation had to be taking an incredible psychological toll. As skilled in combat as he was, Ulaz didn't believe his species was inherently a warrior race, or that Champion was primarily a fighter. Even comparing the matches he had seen today revealed a telling fact about Champion. While the first gladiator had prolonged his opponents' suffering as much as possible and as messily as he could manage, Champion had done his best to end it quickly. Seeing him now, like this, Ulaz was sure that was the case. Even if drawing the fight out at the end and tiring the creature with lesser strikes might have meant less risk to him, he had taken what had probably been the most direct and merciful course of action._ _

__Ulaz wasn't sure if _he_ was being merciful, but he was doing what he thought was necessary. His regenerator was a relatively simple medical device, but it was effective on wounds like this. It didn't technically regenerate tissue, as its colloquial name suggested, but it bound torn flesh and held it together with an organic fixative that mimicked skin. The fixative would last until the actual skin regrew. What caused most of the pain was the forcible closing of the wound. Additional equipment could have interrupted the nerve impulses carrying pain to the brain, but that was only authorized for use on Galra, or with special permission in exceptional cases._ _

__How many times was this going to happen? How many times would Champion be wounded, and how many times would Ulaz close up the rents in his skin and his muscle and his bone? The red power light on the regenerator lit. Ulaz focused it on the wound. This wasn't the first time he'd heard Champion scream, but he hadn't grown used to the sound, and it cut through him in a way that was as alien to him as Champion himself. Fortunately, this wound wasn't the worst Champion had been dealt, and this time, the process was brief._ _

__When he turned off the regenerator and pulled it free, Champion raised his head. His gaze was sharp now. The pain must have returned him to his senses, somewhat. "It's you," he said. Champion's tone had hardened, and his eyes held the usual suspicion. "Ulaz," he said._ _

__Ulaz nodded. "I'm going to neutralize the drugs in your system now."_ _

__"What happened?" Champion asked, glancing down at his leg. "I was bleeding." There was still blood on his skin. Ulaz could scent it on the air, although the wound itself was now only visible as a thin, pale line._ _

__"You were injured in the ring. You don't remember?"_ _

__Champion brushed his fingers against his thigh. "Not really. I remember the crowd. The noise. Something moving fast—" He shook his head. "It seems like a dream, a nightmare. I can't bring it all back."_ _

__Ulaz was pleased that he was continuing to lie still. He brought out his neutralizer, and Champion allowed him to use it without protest. "Impaired memories aren't unusual in these cases," he said._ _

__Champion nodded. It couldn't have been pleasant for him to contemplate his memory fracturing further, preventing him from knowing what had happened—and what hadn't. "Is it going to get worse?"_ _

__Ulaz frowned. He didn't lie. "Most likely."_ _

__"You sound like you care about that."_ _

__"I'm a physician," Ulaz reminded him._ _

__"I'm almost starting to believe you."_ _

__As he'd had no illusions about being believed, this admission was more than Ulaz had a right to expect. "If you prefer," he said._ _

__"You've left me unbound." Champion looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally, then turning them so that he could see his palms. His movements were unimpeded._ _

__"I have. It didn't seem necessary to keep you restrained."_ _

__"You aren't worried that I'll attack you?"_ _

__"I won't say it's not a concern." Ulaz knew that it was a danger, but Champion had little to gain from attacking him here and now. He had come to the conclusion that Champion was essentially a rational person, even if circumstances had begun to erode his rationality. If Champion had been planning to attack, he probably wouldn't have asked about it first. "Are you going to attack me?" Ulaz asked._ _

__Champion didn't answer that question. "You've come to see me many times now," he said. He sat up and let out a long breath, but he didn't make any aggressive movements. He was healed, and the influence of the drugs on his system was lessened, but he must still feel weak and sick. "Haven't you?"_ _

__"I have."_ _

__"I don't remember all of them, do I?"_ _

__"Probably not." Ulaz hadn't seen the need to move him to the table—in this cell, it was no more sanitary than the floor, and he had been a witness to Champion's violent reactions to being strapped down there. Instead of bothering with the table, Ulaz was crouching on the floor beside Champion._ _

__"But I think I remember enough. About you." Champion leaned back against the wall. The furrow drawn between his brows was deep, leaving no mystery as to the fact that whatever he was thinking about, he was considering it with great intensity. "My name is Shiro," he said finally._ _

__Ulaz was unsure of how to react. The offer of a simple name could hardly be called a confidence, especially when it was secret largely because it was likely no one here had asked him for it. Prisoners' names didn't matter to the empire. Yet Ulaz felt it was significant that it had been given to him, as if he were being recognized as someone who would think that name mattered. It pleased him more than it should have—but wasn't it one of his duties, to form connections with those who might be able to join the fight against the empire? Yes, it was his duty. He should be pleased. Champion didn't trust him wholeheartedly, but something had changed between them. "Shiro, then."_ _

__"I'm not sure what to make of you," said Shiro. "Doctor Ulaz."_ _

__"What you will," Ulaz answered._ _

__"I don't know what to make of that, either. Everything you say and do... It's different. You're different from the others. What is it you want from me?"_ _

__"It's not that I want anything from you."_ _

__"I know that isn't true. All of you do. You just want something other than what they want. I'm trying to figure out what that is."_ _

__He wasn't wrong, but what Ulaz wanted wasn't clearly defined yet. It was the Blade of Marmora's will that mattered to him far more than his own. He had sacrificed any personal desires, because they weren't as important as the greater goal. He couldn't tell this alien about the Blade. That would be unthinkable. Blades took their secrets with them into death. Yet he entertained the idea of confiding in this person—long enough to imagine it, although he would never do it. Shiro. "You're welcome to try, but I've told you—"_ _

__"I know. The simple physician, the compassionate one. If you were so compassionate, I don't think you'd work for them. Day after day, without complaint."_ _

__In his place, one of the guards would have struck Shiro long before now, to silence him. Although one of the guards would never have freed him from his restraints or tried to start a dialogue with him. Unlike a guard, Ulaz was enjoying their conversation, for all that it wasn't an entirely friendly one. He could speak more freely here than he could in his conversations with Thace. He scanned this cell regularly for listening devices, and it was clean. "The situation is more complicated than a matter of what I'd prefer to do."_ _

__"I may have an idea of what that's like." Shiro's speech and cognitive functions were excellent, considering the stress he'd been subjected to recently. Not for the first time, Ulaz admired how remarkably adaptive and tenacious he was. Shiro's next question proved that further. "Have you seen my—the other humans, like me?"_ _

__"No, I don't know what happened to them."_ _

__"Of course you don't. I didn't think it would be that easy."_ _

__Yet it was understandable that he would ask. Ulaz assumed he was their commanding officer; he couldn't see Shiro as anything but the leader of whatever mission he had been on. Ulaz was tempted to ask about the other humans—Matt and Doctor Holt, as he had learned from Shiro's ramblings—but he doubted Shiro would be forthcoming with information on them. He watched Shiro watching him. There was no way to tell how he appeared to the human. Did he find Galra generally monstrous? Or Ulaz in particular? That wasn't unthinkable. Ulaz experienced another of his impulses. He wanted to tell Shiro that he would let him know anything he heard about the others of his kind, but he couldn't make him any promises, and he shouldn't want to. "This isn't the place for easy answers."_ _

__"Right—that's not how I'd describe it, either. _Easy._ I keep fighting, but there isn't any end to the fighting. I think I'll have to keep fighting until I can't anymore. Isn't that what they want?" When Ulaz didn't answer him, he closed his eyes. He released the most mirthless laugh Ulaz had ever heard. "You're one of them, but—it's funny, you're the only person I can talk to here," said Shiro._ _

__It was with shock that Ulaz realized that the same was true of him: the liar, the traitor, who had no valid place here and no means of making a sincere connection with another Galra. "Yes, I—" he began, but he realized he was about to say too much. He should stop speaking. He closed his mouth. As Shiro's eyes widened, Ulaz rose to his feet. Shiro was an intelligent person. He must have guessed what Ulaz had been about to say: that he had been about to agree with him. "The lingering effects of the drugs should continue to fade." Medical details were safer ground. He would restrict himself to those. "Don't strain your leg. It will take a few days to heal before you can trust it in a fight."_ _

__"Ulaz, wait—" Ignoring Ulaz's suggestion, Shiro struggled to rise._ _

__"Lie down," Ulaz said firmly. He was done with personal conversations, for the moment. "I'll check on your progress in a day or two." He didn't wait. He was already leaving._ _


	4. A Question of Trust

In his cell, he had no shortage of time in which to think, and so, he thought—when not addled by drugs or injury. He had too much time to think. He made plans, then second guessed them. He invented enemies and doubts. The hours of captivity stretched. Tedium made them feel like weeks. He had lost all sense of how long he had been a prisoner of the Galra. The shadows in the corners and the reddish light above: these were his truest companions. Those and the silence. He was alone with them now. No, that wasn't entirely accurate. He also had the pressure of the restraints at his wrists and ankles for company.

Imprisonment was so much worse when they left him bound. The pain and forced inactivity were a strain, and then there were the little annoyances that added to the overall burden, like itches he couldn't scratch. There were times when the guards didn't bother to restrain him, and there were times they used their prods and tranquilizers to tie him to the long table. This was one of the times they had prodded and stunned and tied him down, following his hasty meal of bland nutrient mush.

Shiro was unable to detect reason in the inconstancy of his binding, but he didn't believe it could be entirely random. There were stretches of time he couldn't recall. He didn't always want to consider why there were stretches of time he couldn't recall, but he tried to face reality, and to detect as much of the truth as he could from his limited vantage point. He couldn't let anything slip through his fingers. He had so few tools and so few facts to work with at this point. Too many uncertainties haunted him. Like the guards, they hemmed him in.

Then, there was Ulaz.

Shiro had to decide whether Ulaz could be useful to him. He and the Galra doctor were engaged in communication unlike any he'd been able to establish with another of Ulaz's kind. Ulaz was the only one who'd gone so far as to offer his name, and since then, he had offered more than that. Generally, the Galra were more inclined to strike him than to speak to him. Ulaz had nearly gotten to the point of admitting that he enjoyed talking to him.

What set Ulaz apart? He was open to an exchange of ideas, and he had exhibited compassion. Those weren't traits Shiro had learned to expect from any Galra, and he had to conclude that Ulaz differed from the others here in some fundamental way. Shiro should be able to use that to his advantage, but how?

He could use Ulaz's sympathy to distract him, by weakening his resolve and caution. If he could catch Ulaz unaware, he could take advantage of that inattention to overpower him and escape. Having come up with that idea quickly, Shiro discounted it almost at once. Not only was using a person's kindness against them distasteful to him, but after striking out at Ulaz and leaving his cell, Shiro would be alone in the guarded hallways of a vessel he had limited knowledge of. Where would he go after that? It was unlikely he'd escape from this deck, let alone the ship. No, the benefits of an assault were severely limited. What would benefit him more was an ally.

He needed an ally, but he was far from being in a position to call Ulaz one. Their conversations aside, he had no way of knowing why the Galra was paying such close attention to him. Assuming that he would _help_ was a leap too far. Shiro would eventually have to take a risk, but he would prefer to take a calculated risk. He couldn't recklessly throw his life away. He wasn't thinking only of himself. It was imperative that he return to Earth as soon as possible and let the authorities know what had happened to him. There was a high probability that the Galra, who had encountered his crew on the edge of the solar system, would travel closer to the sun and discover the one planet that harbored intelligent life. He had to let the people of Earth know what was coming and how much danger they were in. For him to do that, he first had to elude danger himself.

That was a task that Shiro was unlikely to accomplish while tied up like this. While he waited for release or an event to end the tedium, he counted, starting with one and rising from there. Simple mathematics wasn't the most exciting way to pass the time, but it was reassuring and regular. When his mind was racing, he was unable to focus on anything much more complicated than that. With his eyes closed and his mind open, he became intensely aware of his surroundings, as "seen" through his sense of hearing.

It was through counting that Shiro had found one of his few advantages. During one of his long stretches of solitude, he'd said to himself suddenly: _The patrol will be here soon._ Moments later, he had heard the distant sound of their footsteps echoing at the far end of the hall. He understood. As this was a military vessel, there was an order to its procedures. The routine was regular and for the most part predictable, like a stream of numbers. He had been teaching himself to time these procedures: half by intent and half by accident. 

This discovery had given him a new way to spend and mark his time. He tested his accuracy in predicting the movements of the Galra. He had to become as reliable as possible. If he knew where they were, and when, he could avoid them—if he could get out of this cell. This development was one of his most beneficial accomplishments so far in this prison, with the possible exception of his communication with Ulaz.

It was Ulaz, who, while talking him through his pain, had counted with him. It had occurred to Shiro that Ulaz had been trying to guide him to the realization that the guards could be timed. He might have been assuming too much, because if Ulaz was helping him, then what could his motivation possibly be? The difficulty of answering such questions continued to frustrate Shiro, but he could distract himself from frustration by utilizing his knowledge of the guards' schedule to keep track of any irregularities that arose.

Such as the irregularity currently echoing through the corridor: heavy, unscheduled footsteps. Their arrival was entirely out of line with his count, unless he'd made a large error or had blacked out for a span without realizing it. He detected a group of more than than two people, walking together, but his ears weren't keen enough to determine more than that. Unable to shift into a defensive position, Shiro lay still, wondering what their destination was. The steps came to a stop outside his cell. Whoever had come to see him, he could do nothing to prepare for their arrival. He could only wait. Staying in this place had taught him more than he'd ever wanted to know about helplessness.

The cell door opened. As Shiro was strapped to the table, he couldn't so much as look up to see who was coming in. Not that he needed to wonder long, as he heard the guards strike an attentive pose and salute. "Vrepit sa, Commander!"

That told him what he needed to know. He wished he didn't have to know it, but there was no hiding from it, when he couldn't even move. "So, this is Champion," said a deep voice. "Let me get a look at him." Shiro's vision shortly filled with the sight of a large Galra officer, looming over him. 

"He looks even smaller up close." The Galra was one of those who were covered with purple fur. His appearance wasn't entirely wolfish or leonine, but had aspects of both. One of the first thing Shiro noticed about him was his right eye, which had been replaced with a round, red, luminous prosthetic, at the edges of which Shiro could see the scar that must have taken the eye. His left arm was also odd. It was armored at the shoulder, but below that, it was a glowing column of light. Another prosthetic? For a race of people who could broadly and accurately be described as battle-hardened, this individual was more so than most.

"They said the others of his kind showed no physical prowess," the commander said, seemingly speaking to himself rather than to the guards or Shiro. 

Shiro tried prevent any sign of interest from creeping into his expression and maintain the blankest face possible, but the mention of "others" brought him hope that there might be mention made of what had become of Matt and Doctor Holt. His hope was vain. The commander displayed no further interest in the other humans and continued to speak about Shiro. "This one must be of the warrior class. He's larger. Higher muscle mass. Different coloration. Dark."

At this, the commander's fingers brushed his hair, and Shiro struggled not to tense or show his discomfort. In his head he counted slowly: _One, two three. Stay calm._

The commander's eye narrowed. Shiro was glad he'd kept his expression neutral, because the Galra seemed to be waiting for some reaction from him. The guards didn't say anything, probably deciding it would be wiser to remain silent. This was Shiro's first interaction with this officer, but he suspected the guards were making the right choice. "Still, he is pathetic compared to our Galra gladiators. Yet—he continues to defeat them. He doesn't look it, but they say he's as vicious as a serkabeast. And he's defeated one of those, too."

The commander's critical assessment continued throughout this brief monologue, but Shiro continued to suppress all reaction. This became even more difficult to do as his face was gripped by the commander's real right hand. Clawed fingers pressed on his cheeks. "His skin is soft and hairless. Odd. Though I wouldn't call him repulsive."

There was a long pause, during which the commander said nothing, and no one else was inclined to say anything.

The commander scowled. "Champion—can you speak?"

Shiro didn't want to, but he sensed refusing would be a mistake. "Yes."

"What is your species?" 

"Human."

"Are you one of their soldiers?"

The Galaxy Garrison was a scientific, exploratory operation, rather than the kind of military organization this officer was thinking of, but Shiro said, "Yes."

"I wonder how useful your people will be to us."

As he hadn't been asked a direct question, Shiro didn't give a direct reply, but he didn't like the implications of that statement. He hadn't failed to realize that for a civilization as technologically advanced as the Galra Empire, attacking Earth would be a relatively simple operation. Maddeningly, he had no way of knowing whether the Galra had taken any action against Earth, or whether any warning he might deliver to his planet would arrive too late.

The commander didn't clarify this issue, any more than he had clarified the fate of the other human captives. "If there are others as strong as you, they might be worth keeping."

Shiro had never felt so much like livestock. He didn't like the feeling, and he liked it less when the commander released his grip on his face, only to run his hand over his chest and thigh, considering. "We'll keep you fighting in the arena for now, since you enjoy it so much. I don't want to discourage your thirst for blood."

Shiro had no such thirst, although he'd tried to cultivate that impression. He couldn't manage to be glad that he'd succeeded in his charade. He wanted the commander to leave his cell as soon as possible. This was the second instance he'd experienced of a Galra displaying a measure of personal interest in him, and he enjoyed this instance far less. Ulaz was relatively pleasant and appeared to have an interest in his welfare. He couldn't say the same for the commander.

"There's never been a gladiator like you. Champion."

Shiro didn't like the sound of that, but he wasn't called on to comment again. The commander addressed the guards. "Don't have him injured or put down without my command. If he dies in the ring, that's one thing, but if one of you damages him, I'll make you wish you hadn't."

That was reassuring. At least he wasn't going to be put down without authorization from above.

"For now, leave him as he is," said the commander. "That is an order."

"Yes, sir! Vrepit sa!" The guards sounded more concerned by the possibility of punishment than eager to obey their commanding officer, but the Galra did rely on fear to inspire obedience.

Having given his orders, the commander didn't leave yet, looking down at Shiro for another few, long minutes, his false eye glowing steadily. "You've drawn some interest, Champion," he said, a statement that conjured more questions than it dispelled.

The commander turned and strode out without further instruction to the guards. In their eagerness to avoid punishment, they hesitated between staying and leaving, stepping toward the door, and then away from it. "Enough!" barked the commander from the hall, finally. The guards rushed out after him then, the door closing behind them.

Ulaz's attention wasn't the only special notice he was winning. Now there was this. He didn't appreciate this new admirer at all. He didn't need to wonder whether the commander would be an ally. He was an obvious enemy, and the encounter with him reinforced Shiro's belief that Ulaz wasn't interested in him purely out of compassion. No, Shiro's performance in the arena was drawing attention from more than one quarter and must have piqued a general Galra interest. Ulaz, too, must have an ulterior motive for striking up an acquaintanceship with him.

Unfortunately, Shiro knew too little about the political situation and the individuals involved to use his uneasy popularity to his full advantage. He was caught up in these currents without knowing their origins or where they might take him. That made it hard to choose a course of action, but his instinct was to move toward Ulaz rather than that unpleasant commander. By the time Ulaz appeared before him again, Shiro had decided what he would do.

Ulaz's footsteps were another variation in what Shiro was coming to recognize as the overall pattern of the prison. Ulaz walked alone, and his schedule wasn't regular, as it depended on which patients had need of him. This sound of his footfalls was exceedingly soft, for a Galra. Here, at least, where Galra had no need for stealth, most of them walked as if to announce themselves. They likely could have been much quieter, but they displayed no desire for quiet. Shiro didn't object, as it made his guard-tracking easier.

Shiro predicted Ulaz's arrival because of his quietness, rather than despite it. Who else could it have been, stopping so lightly by his door? He didn't need to raise his head to see. He spoke as the door opened. "I'd stand to offer you a seat, but I'm tied up right now. Or down." The restraining table was the only piece of furniture here, but Shiro couldn't imagine anyone would want to sit on it, even if he wasn't strapped down across it. He preferred to sit on the floor, himself.

Ulaz didn't acknowledge his poor attempt at humor, but he did move immediately to untie Shiro, his large fingers moving nimbly over the bonds and unfastening them. He had started to make a habit of freeing Shiro, a habit Shiro approved of as a healthy one. "I had some visitors," Shiro said as he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.

"What visitors were these?"

"The guards, as usual. But also a commander." Shiro had decided to tell Ulaz what had happened to him, to see how Ulaz would respond to being confided in. The risk in doing so was low, and he was looking for new ways to test Ulaz, to understand him better. 

His words captured Ulaz's attention. Shiro could tell when he was interested, not because his expression changed, but because it—froze? It was hard for Shiro to articulate what Ulaz's face did, as it was extremely subtle, but he knew it when he saw it. "What did the commander want?"

"Do you know him?" Shiro asked.

"I'm a physician," said Ulaz, as if this answered his question. 

"Do you treat the officers?" Shiro guessed that they didn't want the same person to work with the prisoners and the elite, but he liked to have his guesses confirmed.

"No, I work with the lower orders."

"Like me." 

Ulaz nodded, and Shiro didn't take offense. That was how he was seen by the Galra. They made no secret of it. He didn't believe that Ulaz himself was calling him lower. "The commander and I are not acquainted," Ulaz said. "They see me as a kind of technician. Making repairs."

"What's his name?" Shiro asked.

"Sendak."

"What can you tell me about him?" As he spoke, Shiro was stretching his arms, trying to rid himself of the stiffness that had gathered in his limbs during his long stint of immobility.

"He isn't someone I'd wish to displease. He believes in strict discipline."

"But he's never disciplined you."

"No. My record is clean."

"I know. You're the good doctor."

"I enjoy my work. I have no reason to defy my superiors."

"Ulaz, sometimes I have the feeling—" Shiro broke off. They were both being careful as they spoke with each other. They were always careful, but Shiro wanted to push through that care to whatever was on the other side. Such rashness wasn't like him. He shouldn't give in to impulses. He had to consider the precarious situation he was in.

"What feeling?" asked Ulaz, that interested non-expression taking over his face again.

"That there's something you're not telling me," said Shiro. This answer struck him as an inadequate way to answer Ulaz's question, but anything more accurate would have been more telling.

"There are likely many things I'm not telling you."

Yes, that was undeniable. "But is there something you want to tell me?" Shiro asked. He was being too direct for someone like Ulaz. There couldn't be a positive result from speaking to him this way, but he had so little time, and his situation was wearing on him. He felt worn at the edges. And in the middle.

Ulaz removed a narrow, cylindrical instrument from his pocket. There was nothing unusual about that. He had a variety of medical instruments that Shiro didn't know the names of. He did know that they were much more advanced than Earth medical technology. It was a shame that the Galra were incapable of engaging in a positive cultural exchange. That technology could have saved many lives. Ulaz twisted the end of his device, and it lit up. Instead of turning it on his patient, he swept the broad beam of light it produced across the walls and floor, slowly and methodically. When he was done, he turned off the device and put it away. Only then did he say, "The commander is a dangerous man, but he has friends who are more dangerous."

Shiro was startled, not by the words' import so much as the fact that Ulaz had answered his direct question with his own directness.

"I know you're unable to avoid him," Ulaz continued, in his usual matter-of-fact, restrained manner, "but if you could avoid angering him, that would be best."

"I'll do what I can. I don't intend to antagonize him." Shiro rose to his feet, stretching his legs now as Ulaz watched him. "You don't seem to worry that I'll attack you," said Shiro. It wasn't the first time he'd asked some variation of this question.

"You haven't attacked me yet. But you may be trying to create a false sense of safety so that I'll drop my guard."

"I may be."

"I'll continue to take the risk," said Ulaz.

Confiding in Ulaz had gone well so far. Shiro had attained a measure openness in return, so he took it further, that impulse to push closer to Ulaz driving him. "Why are you helping me?"

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"I believe so, yes."

"I shouldn't be doing that. Maybe I've given the wrong impression."

"I don't think so. I think you've given exactly the impression you meant to." Shiro couldn't entirely explain the drive he felt, to further his connection with Ulaz, but as much as Commander Sendak had repelled him, Ulaz compelled him. Whenever Ulaz came to treat him, Shiro felt expectant, as if this was finally the time when an important revelation would be made. Which brought a sudden question to mind: "Why are you here now?" Shiro didn't need treatment. He hadn't been in the ring today, and he wasn't injured. The Galra had showed no interest in providing their prisoners with regular checkups. 

"I'm performing my duties."

"You knew that he came here, didn't you?"

Ulaz's eyes were on his, yellow and calm and clear. "A visit by the commander to the cells is very unusual. I did hear of it."

"And you came to check on me."

"I was curious."

"He told the guards not to injure me." 

"You've become very well known," said Ulaz, unperturbed by this information. "If you're good for morale, he'll want to protect you, so he's extending his sphere of influence to include you."

"Should I be concerned?"

"You should always be concerned."

A fair answer. He _was_ always concerned, but some matters were more concerning than others. "So it's just because I'm well known?"

"It's because you win."

"I'm not going to stop that, if I can help it."

"Good. Don't."

"Is that why you're so interested in me?"

Ulaz was slow to answer this question, but finally said, "It's one reason." It was an admission.

"But you have another reason," Shiro pressed.

Ulaz glanced away. Shiro hadn't forgotten the time the Galra had suggested that he found Shiro easy to talk to. Perhaps easier to talk to than his own kind. After nearly admitting that, Ulaz had quickly made his exit. The subject hadn't been brought up again, but Shiro remembered. The possibility that Ulaz's interest may have been personal as well as professional was what intrigued him most. If Ulaz wanted to utilize him for political reasons, that was understandable. Political motives weren't necessarily a negative, if Shiro could use them to his advantage. However, if there was actual affinity involved— 

Was it realistic to contemplate that? 

A Galra _could_ be capable of harboring opinions that differed from the majority's. Humans were capable of the same. Galra, like humans, were apparently individuals. Shiro hadn't seen signs of them sharing a hive mind or anything along those lines. If genuine affinity between them was possible, Shiro had to ask a question of himself: was his interest in Ulaz due purely to his own motives—the desire to escape and warn Earth—or was he fostering a personal relationship? He was aware of the psychology involved. Unusual circumstances created unusual relationships. Extreme stress could assist in the formation of a bond that wouldn't have come to be, otherwise. The least hostile of his captors could come to seem friendly, and Ulaz was the only person he could even come close to thinking about depending on.

Ulaz, unlike Shiro, didn't appear to be under any undue stress. He was carrying out his usual tasks as a physician. Or so it seemed, but—

"I have another reason," said Ulaz, turning his head to regard Shiro directly again.

Again, Shiro was taken aback by his directness. This conversation was providing him with much more information than he'd expected, if not complete illumination. "And that is?"

"Your world is called Earth, isn't it?"

"How do you know that?"

"You speak of it. When you're not yourself."

"Do I?" How many things had he said, unknowing, that Ulaz had heard? How much more did Ulaz know about him than he realized?

"You speak of wanting to return and save your planet."

"Yes, that's right." He had no reason not to admit to that. Anyone would have wanted that.

"I don't have a homeworld to return to."

"I'm sorry—" Shiro didn't pause to think about the strangeness of apologizing to a Galra for the loss of his world.

"But I have seen worlds destroyed," said Ulaz, not allowing him to finish his apology. "Over and over again. These worlds die completely. Like the Galra homeworld."

Shiro didn't attempt to offer another apology. What good were those words in the face of something as vast as a destroyed planet? Let alone multiple planets. The enormity of that loss—those losses—was difficult to process. He thought of Earth—all those people, some he knew, some he loved, and so very many that he had no knowledge of who were nonetheless worth knowing and loving. He was afraid for them.

"I would like to have a home to return to," said Ulaz. "But its loss was our own doing."

"I think I understand," Shiro said. He didn't understand entirely, because there were complexities involved that he couldn't know, but he understood more than he had.

"Then I want to ask you for something, which may not be easy for you."

"All right," said Shiro. He wasn't willing to make a promise, but he was willing to listen.

"I ask you to trust me," said Ulaz.

"That—" Ulaz's request was simply phrased, but it was not a simple request. "I don't know if I can do that," Shiro said.

Ulaz didn't insist. "Consider it."

"Can you tell me—"

"No," said Ulaz. "I've told you too much. I don't require an answer from you. But remember what I've said, if you can."

Shiro gritted his teeth. Remembering what he had been told was no longer the sure thing it had once been. He had suffered too many injuries, been interfered with too much. After a moment, he nodded. Asking him to trust anyone here was asking a lot, but he did want to remember, so he could decide what he was going to do about this.

"I shouldn't spend too much time here with you," said Ulaz. "It might be noticed. I'll see you again when you fight again."

"I won't say I'm looking forward to that," said Shiro, with a brief flicker of a smile.

Ulaz didn't leave immediately, hesitating by the door. "Is that typical of your kind?" he asked.

"Is what typical?" 

"These jokes. When there is nothing to joke about."

"Oh. That. Yes, you could say it's typical. It's not—unusual."

Ulaz nodded. "I don't dislike it," he said.

"Is that the same as liking it?"

Ulaz's shoulders moved, and Shiro guessed that that was a Galra shrug, offered to him as Ulaz turned to the door. "May it help you, Champion," he said, as he left.

Once he found himself alone in the dark, Shiro asked himself if that exchange had, in fact, happened. Unreal as it felt, he had no reason to believe it hadn't. His mind was today, in spite of the oddities he'd experienced. He had decided to confide in Ulaz, and Ulaz had, for reasons of his own, decided to confide in him. They weren't allies, precisely, but they were closer to being allies than they had been. Shiro had many empty hours ahead of him in which to contemplate whatever it was that was bringing them closer together. He rubbed his wrists and stretched some more, grateful to have been freed. Ulaz had had no practical reason to undo his bonds. As much as his visit from the commander had unnerved him, now he had new hope, and a new prospect: _trust_.

The next time Shiro was taken away to fight, it wasn't with eagerness that he allowed the guards to lead him—although he did usually pretend to enjoy combat when the guards were present. What he was looking forward to was seeing Ulaz afterward, when Ulaz would examine him and heal his injuries. Shiro only had to make it through the fight, as he had made it through so many. He could do that.

As he left the cell, his awareness felt heightened, his senses sharper. Shiro suspected they had spiked his food, or his air supply. He wasn't entirely sure how different substances were introduced into his system, but he had come to know the signs that he had been drugged. His heightened senses would probably intensify into anxiety, and then aggression—but the intensity of these feelings varied. It was as if they were not only trying to enhance his performance in the ring, but to test his reactions to varying levels of exposure. He had the strong suspicion that he was not only an arena fighter but a test subject. He _was_ one of the first humans the Galra had encountered, and the commander had specifically spoken about humans being _useful_. If it was his endurance they were testing, he would make sure their findings were in his favor.

Shiro's hope of seeing Ulaz shortly was soon swallowed up by other concerns as the battle ahead of him grew more immediate. He found himself herded into a group of prisoners—some of whom he recognized, although many were new to him. He wasn't always part of a group. He often fought alone, as the Champion. The presence of other prisoners likely meant that he would have to watch them fight, either one by one or in a group. Even worse, he might have to fight them himself. This was what he dreaded most: to be pitted in a death match against an innocent captive, not unlike himself. His heart started racing at the thought, and the chemicals in his body didn't help.

The wait in the holding pen was a long one, as the seats steadily filled with spectators and the voice of the crowd grew. From where he was confined with the other prisoners, Shiro couldn't see the crowd, but he could hear the murmuring of Galra and the vibrations of their footsteps. He clenched his jaw. Beads of sweat stood on his skin. It was difficult, at times like this, not to hate them. To hate _all_ of them. 

Calm, he had to remain calm, to keep his mind as clear as he could for the battle ahead. Shiro kept his attention on the Galra guards, who were watching the prisoners. They were well armed. In addition to electrical prods, they had energy guns and blades, displayed prominently in holsters and scabbards at their waists. Shiro considered grabbing one of the energy weapons and taking out the guards, but that would be strategic suicide. He was outnumbered in a confined space, and there were more guards nearby, in addition to the huge, gathering crowd of Galra. He might kill a number of them, but it wouldn't end well for him.

"What are you doing?"

Shiro snapped out of his revenge fantasy as a guard's voice rang out. "Don't test me. On your feet!" One of the prisoners had fallen, out of pain or maybe fear. It was a person and a species he didn't recognize, lean-bodied and pale pink in color, with three round, amber-colored eyes. Those eyes were wide with fear as the guard jabbed the prisoner with his prod, sending sparks flying. The prisoner was struggling to rise, but had little chance of doing so, as they were being repeatedly struck and shocked. They let out a groan of pain.

Shiro might not have known anything about the person being attacked, but he leapt toward them without thinking, shouldering the guard out of the way, then elbowing him in the ribs—hard, hoping to make the blow felt through the armor. Maybe the prisoners were all about to fight, and maybe they were all about to die in the process, but Shiro couldn't bear to watch this cruelty. "Leave them alone!"

The words had scarcely left his mouth when a sharp pain shot through his side, above his waist. Shiro stumbled and doubled over. He saw blood on the floor. He saw the hilt of a knife. Its blade had been sheathed in his body. He was the one bleeding. So much blood. He reached for the hilt and only barely retained the presence of mind not to pull it out. Shiro let out a long, rasping breath, and then the floor was very close. 

Closer. _Black._


	5. Blood and Power

Ulaz's first act upon entering the arena stands, as usual, was to scan the crowd for Thace. It may have been a risk to be seen together, but it was a carefully calculated one, since it afforded them the opportunity to share intelligence and opinions. Yet he was equally drawn by the pleasure of Thace's company, however fleeting a pleasure it was. Thace was one of the members of the Blade he was closest to, even if circumstance had severely limited the extent of their association in recent years.

Thace had been assigned to climb up through the ranks, while Ulaz's place was lower down. It was imperative that the Blade of Marmora maintain operatives at all levels of the military and Galra society. If that need added distance between friends, it was a small sacrifice in light of their greater goal. He cared for Thace no less because he saw him less. Thace was a great success in his work, and Ulaz was glad of it.

Searching the crowd bore no result. Thace wasn't present today, and Ulaz suppressed a pang of disappointment. He may have been pleased for Thace, but he did have his own personal feelings. Friendly faces were rare enough here that he was still craving the sight of one, no matter how unhelpful that desire was. How much longer would his assignment last? If he were successful enough, he might remain in his current position for years. There were Blade operatives who spent their entire lives in the same post, if their work there was valuable enough. _Knowledge or death_ was their code, but that death wasn't always violent. Some gave up their lives in slower, more subtle ways, by sacrificing themselves to their false roles.

Some operatives were buried so deep in their assumed lives that Ulaz wasn't aware of their true identities. He may even have spoken to one of them without realizing who they were. Ulaz had no way of knowing what kind of death _he_ would have, but he did not have a preference—as long as that death was worthwhile.

Thace's absence wasn't unusual. He was burdened with a range of duties, as they all were. Ulaz spotted no one in the crowd he could readily identify as an ally. He would have enjoyed breathing in Thace's scent again. He couldn't know how long would pass before he next saw him, but he wouldn't let himself regret the lack too much, not when there were more important matters to focus on. He was sure of seeing Shiro today. He was scheduled to fight, and it was very possible that Ulaz would be tending to him afterward, if Shiro survived. He didn't like to contemplate Shiro's death, but it wouldn't have been realistic to deny the possibility.

As he unwillingly contemplated Shiro's death, Ulaz's communicator sounded an alert: loud and shrill, it demanded to be pulled free of his belt. _Medical personnel to the arena holding area_ , read the glowing text on its screen, blinking insistently at him. A few fellow spectators glanced at Ulaz, but without great interest. Alerts were used widely, to summon personnel of all varieties, for all reasons.

Ulaz was relatively near the holding area already. His body reacting immediately, he was moving in that direction before his mind had fully analyzed the message he'd read. Injuries among the arena fighters weren't uncommon, but it was uncommon for a medical alert to be sent out on behalf of one of the prisoners in holding. The guards had little care for injured prisoners, and the usual practice was for the staff on scene to patch the wounded up as best they could. Had a guard been wounded?

"Ulaz, you're here—" If there _was_ a wounded guard in need of help, it wasn't Barch, who darted out of the crowd to grab Ulaz's arm before Ulaz could make it to holding on his own. "You have to help. The commander—" Ulaz had learned the names of all the guards, but Barch was one of those he interacted with regularly. Tall and grey, he had been a gladiator once, many years ago. Ulaz remembered that Shiro had once bitten him. Barch had undoubtedly deserved it.

Ulaz allowed Barch to pull him along in the direction he'd already been headed in, but the mention of the commander confused the issue more. It was impossible for the _commander_ to have been injured in the holding area, even if for some bizarre reason he had made an appearance there. The alert that would have sounded if a high-ranking officer had been injured would have been much different and much more demanding.

Barch continued to brokenly explain as they moved, pushing through the gathering crowd. Ulaz had never liked Barch, but he maintained his professional mask, listening without reacting as Barch failed to construct coherent sentences. "The commander said— Shouldn't be hurt—but it wasn't our fault. He started it! He's too aggressive!"

It wasn't an eloquent explanation, but it was enough information to enable Ulaz to arrive at a conclusion. "You mean Champion." Shiro was the one who was injured. Given everything that he knew, that was the only possibility that made sense.

"Yes, that one—small, but he's a monster. Do you think the commander will understand? We had to do it."

"He'll understand you should be disciplined if you've disobeyed his orders," said Ulaz coldly. He didn't worry that his tone might seem off; it was normal to address subordinates in that fashion. For once, Ulaz's support of the commander's orders was sincere. The guards were brutal and stupid. So was the commander, yes, but in this case his wishes were in line with Ulaz's own half-formed plans.

Barch fell silent, and if he was afraid, Ulaz wasn't sorry.

In the holding area, Shiro was laid out on the ground, surrounded by a semi-circle of anxious guards and medics. Ulaz felt a surge of contempt for them. Unskilled and unthinking. They weren't worthy of his notice.

As a physician who frequently treated patients in the arena, Ulaz had brought some equipment with him, instruments he could easily carry on his person. He knelt at Shiro's side. The scent of Shiro's blood was overpowering, the more so because of its familiarity. He was glad to see that the knife was still in the wound, but he could tell by the angle and what he estimated was the depth of the wound that there must be grave internal damage. Shiro's skin had paled in tone by several shades, and his breathing was unsteady and shallow. His eyes were open halfway, but they were glassy, and they didn't move to track the movement around him. Shiro may not have registered Ulaz's presence, because he didn't visibly react to it.

Ulaz withdrew his scanner and moved it over the injured area. He could tell in an instant that the damage was as severe as he'd feared. It could easily be fatal. First, he had to stop the bleeding. He had his regenerator with him, too, and he focused it on the wound. It created a seal around the knife. That would arrest the blood flow for now, but he couldn't withdraw the knife here, on the dirty floor of the holding area. He looked up at the guards. "I need him moved to a med bay immediately."

The guards stared. The fully equipped medical bays were for Galra only, except in special circumstances, which may _not_ have included an injured alien prisoner. Prisoners were treated where they fell or wherever they were held, and with portable equipment, not the more extensive and effective tools present in an actual doctor's surgery.

Ulaz was taking a risk. How important, really, was this one prisoner?

"But we can't," said Barch.

"The commander's orders," Ulaz snapped, taking on even more risk by invoking Commander Sendak directly.

His words may not have been wise, but they were enough to convince the guards, and those medics who hadn't been brave enough to try to treat a prisoner the commander had taken an interest in—and risk being blamed if he died. One of the medics produced a stretcher. Good.

Ulaz felt oddly disconnected from himself and his actions as he followed the stretcher down the hall to the nearest medical bay. It could levitate and carried the patient's weight itself, but it required direction. Two guards were guiding it for Ulaz, having decided that he was the authority, here and for the time being. Ulaz paid them little attention. He watched Shiro, keeping an eye on his labored breathing.

When they laid Shiro out on the surgery table, Ulaz wasted no time in taking the controls. Much of the commonly used equipment was suspended over the table, various devices in arm's reach, ready to be raised or lowered by the doctor on duty as needed. The purple lights above it all shone down on Shiro's still form. Ulaz ran another scan, now with the benefit of more sophisticated equipment, providing him with a much more detailed view of the extent of the problem. He noted extensive organ damage and continuous internal bleeding. If measures were not taken immediately, Shiro would almost certainly die. 

His first step was to neutralize whatever drugs were in Shiro's system. He had no way of knowing what Shiro had been dosed with by the arena personnel who thought they knew better than a physician, but whatever he had been given, the effect on him could not have been anything but negative. This step took only moments. The neutralizer in here was much more effective than the portable model he carried with him on his rounds.

Ulaz was not a real doctor, not at his core, but his training had been thorough enough that in a technical sense, he was authentic. He performed the necessary actions quickly, almost automatically, hands moving nimbly over the equipment before him. He dampened the nerve impulses transmitting pain from the wounded area to the brain. Performing such a pain-relieving procedure on a prisoner was against regulations, but Ulaz was already operating well outside of the regulations. He didn't want to risk sending Shiro into fatal shock with severe pain. 

With the knife still lodged in Shiro's body, Ulaz had to rely on an antiquated method: manual removal of the weapon. Fortunately, his scan had indicated that the knife was of such a size and shape that it could be removed without doing further significant damage to the patient. Ulaz acted decisively. He was trained for this. He seized the blade's hilt firmly and pulled it out. 

That was when the blood came. It had pooled inside Shiro while he'd been bleeding internally, and it spilled now onto Ulaz's hands. He hadn't paused to put on gloves or any other protective gear. He didn't stop to do so now.

Ulaz had a suction attachment ready, and he placed it on the wound to draw out the rest of the excess blood. Once the area was suitably clean, he closed the hole in Shiro's side, using the more advanced version of the regenerator that he pulled down from above. Shiro stirred and gasped, but his reactions were limited. He had grown weak.

Reaching up, Ulaz lowered the full surgical array until it touched down on the table, encasing Shiro's body. The surgical screen lit with a display of Shiro's internal organs. There were also readings of his vital signs. Ulaz made a quick study of it all, mentally taking note of the most evident differences between human and Galra physiology. He already had some idea of those differences, but this reading gave him more information than he'd ever had before. What he saw made him glad he had brought Shiro here. He doubted he could have repaired this level of damage using only his usual equipment in the usual setting. Here, he could perform complicated internal surgery without needing to widen the wound first. 

False physician though he might have been, Ulaz was very good at what he did, and very aware of the fact. He operated the controls with confidence. The surgical incisions were light-based. The bright and narrow beams would either pass through or cut into tissues, based on the calculations of the operator. There wasn't much to cut away. This was mostly a matter of repair. He needed to put together what had been torn apart. Pulses of energy, carefully directed, pushed the tissues into place. The work was all done by the equipment, but without a well-trained operator, it would have been easy to turn a life-saving operation into a death-dealing one.

The surgical array glowed softly and emitted a low hum as it worked. It was strange, to see inside Shiro's body and touch him through use of the light. It was a kind of surgery meant to be non-invasive and heal the body from within. For that to work properly, every surface had to be mapped as accurately as possible. There was little margin of error, and so, with great accuracy, Ulaz orchestrated the micro-movements within Shiro's body. Once everything was arranged to his satisfaction, it was necessary to inject a dose of bio-serum by laser, greatly accelerating the healing process. The quintessence levels in the serum were so low that Ulaz wasn't greatly concerned about its long-term effects on Shiro's genetic makeup. He had no other option. He had to stop the bleeding as soon as possible.

Glancing down at himself while he waited for the serum to take effect, Ulaz realized he was covered in Shiro's red, human blood, with its curiously strong smell. He studied his stained hands, then raised his eyes to study the display again. He could see Shiro's body beginning to heal itself, the rent tissues bonding. He had seen this before, but he didn't remember it being so fascinating, any of those other times. He pressed series of buttons with his bloody hands, and a soft, rhythmic sound started to emanate from the machine: the sound of Shiro's heartbeat.

Ulaz's attention was only drawn away from the display when he heard a roar from the hallway. " _What is the meaning of this?_ "

Not a good thing to hear, but Ulaz wasn't finished, so he didn't answer the question or leave the controls to see what it was about. He returned his attention to the work at hand. If something went wrong with the internal healing process, he'd have to make repairs quickly. He had little sense of how much time had passed since he'd entered this room, but time must have passed. The voice outside continued to make loud demands. "We were promised a spectacle. I was looking forward to it. Who's responsible?"

Shiro's breathing grew more easy. His heartbeat was steadying. It was too early to be sure, but the operation may have been a success. Ulaz became aware that while there were two guards in the room with him, the others must have been out in the hall, if they were still in the vicinity. Not a medic was to be seen—they must have had a better idea than the guards of how severe an infraction it was to bring an alien into an imperial medical bay.

The door opened, and Ulaz turned to find the commander's one, yellow eye fixed upon him. The flat lens of the prosthetic gleamed. "What is this about?" Sendak demanded. He was flanked by soldiers. He looked from Ulaz to Shiro as he assessed the situation, and Ulaz understood that Sendak, rather than Shiro's wounds, was now the most pressing danger.

Yet as dangerous as the commander was, this was also Ulaz's one chance to save his career. Ulaz had made a study of the commander. He was not predictable. He was mercurial. He relied on emotion more than logic, but that could be useful here, if he were handled carefully. Ulaz rose to attention and saluted. "Vrepit sa, Commander!"

Commander Sendak returned his salute with the rapidity of unquestioning loyalty. "Vrepit sa!"

"Physician Ulaz, reporting."

"Physician." Sendak was looking for answers, and he had found someone who could provide them. "Explain yourself. I was expecting to see the Champion perform today. Why is he here?"

Ulaz was angry with the guards, but he couldn't afford to antagonize them too much and mark himself as the person who had condemned some of them to death. Nonetheless, he didn't feel merciful, either. "You'll have to question the guards, sir. I wasn't present when he was injured."

"At least you can speak coherently!" Sendak looked to Shiro again. "I wasn't the only one who wanted to see him fight today. But why have you brought this animal in here? He's polluting our equipment." Sendak's gaze rested briefly on Ulaz's bloody hands. "And our doctors."

Ulaz had never had cause before now to deal directly with the commander, and now the full weight of Sendak's attention was on him. He preferred to avoid scrutiny, but he had jumped headlong into it today. "Commander, I was aware of your orders that this creature shouldn't be injured outside of the arena battles." The oddity of the orders and the prominence of Champion meant that everyone had quickly become aware of Sendak's decree, even those who weren't affected by it. "I was called to the scene. I thought you might want him saved. There was no time to consult with my superiors, so I acted in what I thought was your best interest. You're the one who should decide if he dies—not the guards."

Sendak assessed him again, with a measuring look. Because of Sendak's unpredictable nature when dealing with subordinates, Ulaz wasn't sure if the outcome would be favorable. When the military valued aggression and anger, it was rewarded with violent and volatile officers. Yet Ulaz faced Sendak without fear. Confidence was more likely to win over the commander than cowardice—as was the fact that Ulaz had framed his actions as an acknowledgement of the commander's ultimate authority and superior judgment. 

The commander didn't hesitate long. He wasn't the kind to hesitate. "Initiative," he said, and Ulaz enjoyed the sound of the word. "I like a soldier who can act decisively."

Although a doctor, he was also considered a warrior. "Vrepit sa!" he exclaimed again.

"Vrepit sa, Physician," said the commander. "I can trust you to clean this, now that it's been contaminated with filth."

Ulaz's medical superiors would have reprimanded him without hesitation, and might have demoted him—or worse—but appealing to Commander Sendak's sense of self-importance had saved him.

"Is he going to live?" asked Sendak, directing his scrutiny toward Shiro again as he approached the surgery table. Shiro's body was mostly buried in equipment, but his face was visible, his eyes closed. The rhythm of his heartbeat, amplified by the machine, sounded faintly, steadily.

"Yes, Commander."

"Then you'll return him to fighting condition as soon as possible. I don't like to wait!"

"Yes, Commander!"

"As for you—" Sendak hadn't forgotten about the two guards in the room with Ulaz. He turned to Barch and his comrade, who were standing at attention and staring helplessly at the commander. "Take them into custody," Sendak ordered his soldiers. "We'll show them what happens when my orders are disobeyed."

Ulaz couldn't keep his gaze from drifting to the surgical array. Shiro's condition was continuing to stabilize.

"You're dedicated to your work," said Sendak.

Ulaz realized he was still being watched. Both the commander's eyes—yellow and red—were bright. "Yes, Commander."

"Good. I like to watch him fight. See that you don't fail me."

Was that why Sendak had issued his orders regarding Shiro—because he found Shiro particularly entertaining? Did he want to be sure he could watch Shiro die in the ring where he could see him, instead of unobserved by the crowds in one of the holding pens? It was a compelling theory, but Ulaz wasn't about to make assumptions without proof, and he also wasn't going to ask Sendak. "Yes, Commander."

Sendak didn't bother with farewells. His business concluded, and his subordinates dealt with, he left. It was only once Sendak was out of earshot, along with the guards and his own attendant soldiers, that Ulaz felt his breathing return to normal, as Shiro's was in the process of doing.

That encounter had gone much better than it might have, and possibly as well as it could have, although Ulaz would have preferred not to have been obligated to deal with Commander Sendak at all. He left the controls for the surgical table, drawing close to Shiro and gazing down at his pale face. Being so close to him, watching him breathe, and knowing that he would most likely recover, Ulaz experienced a rush of relief. The warm feeling began to gather around his solar plexus, then rose up and spread rapidly throughout the rest of his body.

He shouldn't have felt so relieved. He had no valid reason to be so invested in Shiro's fate. His intervention could easily have jeopardized his position and his entire mission. It still might. The commander had been appeased, but he could change his mind. Or the actions of a physician with initiative might stick in his memory and surface at an inconvenient time. It could take months or years for the full extent of the consequences to become apparent. Ulaz should know better than to allow feeling to cloud his judgment and direct his actions. He had been trained. He was completely committed to his work as a Blade. Yet he had become emotional. Objectively assessing today's actions, he had to conclude that his judgment was now impaired. His bias toward Shiro was too great. 

He had not behaved as he should have, but stubbornly, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Shiro would have died if he hadn't acted as he had. Ulaz looked down at his hands again. The blood scent had grown stronger, rather than fading with time. That could be one of the properties of the human blood, which had darkened as it had dried on his skin.

That strange feeling that Ulaz had experienced earlier in the hallway returned: a sense of disconnection from himself. The sound of Shiro's heartbeat in the background didn't help. It made everything seem both more unreal and more intense. He realized he was counting the beats. Why was he doing that? It was as if he didn't have complete control over either mind or his body. He was acting without thinking normally, directed by an unfamiliar instinct instead of his usual cautious common sense. He raised one hand to his lips, slowly. With a quick flick of his tongue, he licked at the blood, drawing the taste of it into his mouth. 

The flavor spread across his tongue. He may have tasted Shiro's blood on the air before, but this taste was more direct, overwhelming. He experienced a warm feeling, not unlike the glowing relief he had felt before, at the thought that Shiro would survive. This feeling began in his head and washed over him, traveling downward until his entire body was heated by it. He was overcome by a desire for more blood, and he had to exercise his full restraint to prevent himself from licking his hands clean. He had already gone far enough—no, too far. He stared at Shiro again, unthinkingly, as if had suddenly lost the ability to recognize him. Shiro didn't stir. Ulaz had to look away from him. He had to put a stop to these thoughts, these impulses. He had to occupy himself with something else, instead.

Ulaz quickly ran the disinfecting program on the medical bay, then stepped into the adjacent decontamination chamber to clean himself more throughly. He would disinfect everything again once Shiro was gone. The authorities would want no trace of him to remain here. Yet there was one sense in which his presence would be more lasting. Ulaz could still taste Shiro's blood in his mouth, but there was no way he could wash that away now.

Tasting blood wasn't an action to be taken lightly, especially where an alien was concerned. Such liaisons were frowned upon. Not that the disapproval of others was a great motivator for Ulaz, but he was too aware of the many problems that would arise if he drew too close to someone else, especially someone from another species. Especially a prisoner. He didn't object to the idea of cross-species connections on principle. On the contrary, there were many hybrids in the Blade of Marmora, and they were admired comrades. What gave him pause was that forming a bond of blood with someone else wasn't a commitment he could back out of. It was binding. He was making a mistake, and he had to stop himself before it was too late.

Unfortunately, he was already involved to an extent, and he had to stay involved. He couldn't extricate himself completely. He had told the commander that he would see to Shiro's quick recovery, so he would. He did.

It was easy enough to have Shiro transferred back to his cell, now that he had the commander's stamp of approval to justify his actions. No one spoke to Ulaz about what had happened, and the reason for that was probably their fear of Commander Sendak. His connection with the emperor made him even more feared than other officers of his rank. Wariness, if not fear, should have kept Ulaz clear of him as well, but he couldn't truly distance himself from this situation anymore. He would now be connected with Shiro in everyone's mind, including his own.

His only hope was to minimize the damage as much as he could. He left Shiro's cell as soon as he saw him safely delivered there. There was no reason for him to linger and wait. Shiro should be safe, for now. He could begin to recuperate on his own.

Ulaz had no desire to return to the arena and see what fight was ongoing in Champion's absence. He returned to his work, instead. As he buried himself in his tasks, treating and checking on other patients, thoughts of Shiro kept resurfacing. Each time, Ulaz reminded himself that it would be better for him to limit the time he spent with Shiro as much as possible. Yet despite his best intentions, as soon as he could—once all other possible tasks were done—he made his way back to Shiro's bedside.

Some hours had passed. Ulaz had left Shiro on the table in his room, but only loosely bound, so that he wouldn't accidentally fall off if he started tossing in his sleep. Ulaz listened to the sound of his breathing for a short while before he did anything else. "Shiro," said Ulaz softly. He didn't want to wake him, yet he did want to talk to him, to assure himself of the fact that Shiro could still talk, was still living.

There was no immediate response, so Ulaz said his name again, with the slightest increase in volume. "Shiro." He told himself he wasn't going to speak Shiro's name a third time, and would let him rest if he didn't awaken, but his resolve on that point was already slipping when finally Shiro opened his eyes.

His eyes were responsive now, focusing on Ulaz after a disoriented delay. "Ulaz? What happened?" Other than an understandable dazedness, there was no hesitation or suspicion in Shiro's voice, and Ulaz experienced a deep pleasure at the thought that Shiro had some faith in him. "What do you remember?"

"Not much. They'd taken me to the arena to fight. There were other prisoners with me—The guards were attacking one of them. I couldn't let them do that."

"Yes, you were wounded by one of the guards. Presumably after you intervened." 

Shiro smiled weakly. "I keep you busy patching me up."

Ulaz couldn't keep himself from returning that smile. "That's my duty."

"It's more than that, isn't it? No one else goes out of their way for me, even if I am the 'Champion'. But you're always here."

Ulaz couldn't deny that. It was patently true. Shiro had arrived at an evidence-based conclusion. Ulaz had never taken so many risks for a patient before. _That_ wasn't his mission, even if Shiro might prove useful to him at some future time. Ulaz's mission was gathering information for the Blade. He didn't respond directly to Shiro's comment, asking instead, "Can you estimate the level of pain you're experiencing?"

"It's—" Shiro paused, taking stock. "I've felt worse, but it's not great."

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"You have that, too?" asked Shiro. "The one to ten scale?"

"We do."

"So humans and Galra do have something in common."

Ulaz liked these little jokes. Against his better judgment, he found himself smiling. "Maybe not a great deal, but something."

"I'd say—it's a seven," said Shiro.

Ulaz took him at his word. Shiro didn't strike him as either the kind of person to exaggerate, or the kind to minimize his suffering because he thought pain indicated weakness. He did strike Ulaz as someone who could endure, like a Blade. Against regulations, he had neutralized the pain from Shiro's injury, but the effects of that transgression would have worn off by now. 

He wished he could say the same for the effects of all his transgressions, but as he studied Shiro, he felt his heartbeat quicken in a way that it shouldn't. He felt a buzzing at the back of his head, and a tension gathering down the length of his neck. His senses were sharper: colors brighter, and scents so keen he could read them like a text. He was almost painfully aware of his surroundings, but more than that, he was aware of Shiro, of his presence and the smell of him, making it difficult for Ulaz to concentrate on his attempt to evaluate his condition.

Ulaz was familiar with these symptoms. All Galra were. They were the subject of many a drama and history, and that they were discussed in any number of medical textbooks. Yet as a Blade, he wasn't supposed to experience them. Not on a mission. He shouldn't have allowed this to happen. He should have noticed the first signs and drawn back immediately, far enough to put a noticeable distance between himself and Shiro. No, instead he had talked to him more and had spent increasingly more time with him. He had revealed part of himself—nothing too dangerous, but far more than he should have shown to anyone except another Blade. He had even tasted his blood, like a lovesick adolescent.

This wasn't fitting behavior for a Blade. What kind of operative would form a pair bond with a person of interest he was monitoring? Ulaz, apparently. It was such a foolish misstep that even a novice wouldn't have made it. Ulaz had never done anything remotely this outlandish before.

"Seven," repeated Ulaz. It was a high number, although it could have been higher. He was frustrated, because he couldn't even tell Shiro to contact him if his condition worsened. He wasn't a patient who could contact his physician to ask for help. The empire didn't see him as a person. "I'll see what else I can do." He wanted to do more. There were many things he would have changed, if he could.

"You've done enough already. I'm here, aren't I?"

"You are."

"I'm sure you've done more, that I don't remember."

"I don't know how much you do remember, but that is possible." It was probable, considering what he had done and the lapses Shiro suffered.

"Do you—" Shiro began to speak, but then broke off, as if thinking better of it.

"Go on," said Ulaz.

"Are you always here, working like this? I remember what you said—about your world. But is there somewhere else that you go?"

"You mean, do I have any kind of home I return to?"

"Or—a family."

"No," said Ulaz. His fellow blades were a family, but he wouldn't speak of them. "There's nowhere else I go. I'm stationed here, and I stay here. My work is what I am." 

"Is that what you want? If you had a choice, I mean, would you choose that?"

"I would." All at once, he felt bitterly frustrated that he couldn't tell Shiro what his work truly was. He had never before felt the slightest desire to confess, but he wanted to now—to confess everything. He wanted Shiro to understand his life's work, and to approve of it. To be proud of him. Instead, Shiro thought of him as a doctor who perhaps possessed a measure of kindness and compassion, but was still a part of the empire that had brought Shiro to this place, and to this state.

"What is it?" Shiro asked.

"What?"

"You look—troubled."

That was also a problem. He shouldn't appear visibly troubled, not to Shiro or to anyone. How many more mistakes was he going to make? Instead of answering the question, he asked his own. "And your family?"

"They're obviously very far away, but yes, I do have one. And I have friends, who are like family. I—" He broke off. "It's hard to talk about them now."

Ulaz was sure he was referring to more than the physical effort. "Then don't."

"I need to get back to them."

Ulaz didn't offer him empty reassurances. He had no way of knowing if Shiro would see his family and friends again. "I hope you will." That was the truth. His head was buzzing again, and he had to steel himself to maintain an unconcerned expression while his chest was squeezing his quickly beating heart. He wanted nothing so much as Shiro's survival.

"Ulaz," said Shiro. Ulaz wondered if Shiro said his name because it grounded him, serving as a reminder that he was really here, with someone. That he wasn't alone.

"Yes?"

"You asked me if I could trust you."

"I did." From one visit to the next, he couldn't be sure what Shiro would remember, but oddly enough, in spite of the injury he'd been dealt, he was very lucid now. That was thanks, in part, to the neutralizer's work. Ulaz should use his on Shiro more often—but he didn't allow himself the false, if reassuring, belief that the only thing that was wrong with Shiro was the reversible effects of various chemicals.

"So I've decided," said Shiro. "For now, I'll try it." Shiro let out a breath, and Ulaz appreciated that he was breathing and speaking through his level seven pain. "There. That was harder than I thought it would be. I know just saying it doesn't make it true, but—"

"I believe you," said Ulaz.

"You do?"

Ulaz nodded. "Trust can't be fully effective unless it's reciprocated—so, let's trust each other. As much as we can."

"We're not the most trusting people, are we?" Shiro managed a half-laugh, which quickly inspired a wince. He had to stop laughing, but he smiled instead.

"No, we must not be."

"We have some things in common—other than the one to ten scale," said Shiro.

Ulaz couldn't stop watching him. He'd heard the power of this feeling described before, but he'd never experienced it himself. It bordered on agonizing. Like trust, such a feeling required reciprocation to reach its full potential. He knew that for Shiro to experience the same longing he was now feeling would be impossible. To Shiro, in spite of the trust he was offering, Ulaz would always be the other—the Galra. A member of a species that Shiro must think of as monstrous, considering what Galra had done to him and continued to do. Ulaz could offer no excuse for his people and their actions. He wouldn't expect any reciprocation from Shiro. He could keep this feeling to himself. He could bear the pounding in his chest. He swore to himself that it wouldn't compromise his mission. He had promised Shiro trust, but he hadn't promised him honesty. That was a promise he couldn't make.

"Ulaz."

The sound of his name in that voice brought him to full and immediate attention now, but he made himself remain calm. "What is it?"

"Are you putting yourself at risk, by doing these things?"

"You shouldn't worry about that."

"Does that mean you aren't putting yourself at risk, or that you don't want me to worry?"

"You shouldn't worry about that, either."

Letting out a long sigh, Shiro closed his eyes. Ulaz waited. There was no further response. Had he fallen asleep? If so, good. He needed much more real, long, uninterrupted sleep. Ulaz hoped he hadn't taxed him too much in the course of their conversation. He had wanted to check on his progress, but perhaps he'd lingered longer than was good for his patient. As much as the irrational part of Ulaz—who'd have thought _he_ would become so irrational?—wanted to stay by his side, Shiro needed quiet and peace. 

Ulaz was about to leave, and had almost reached the cell door, when a faint noise arrested him. "Don't want to lose the one person I have here," Shiro murmured. His words were indistinct, but Ulaz heard him clearly enough. He lowered the hand that had been reaching toward the door. He faced Shiro, who was lying still on the narrow table that served as his bed. Ulaz watched him, as if he'd forgotten how to look away from him, but Shiro didn't stir again, and to all appearances had fallen into a true sleep.


	6. Surgical Strike

He was traveling down a long corridor. Not walking, but passing through space—it was as if the floor beneath his feet was carrying him along, like the moving walkway at an airport. Except this was no airport. This was a long, featureless corridor, with gray walls and no visible end. He could feel himself moving along steadily, but when he glanced down, he saw the floor was static and bare. The walls never changed.

"Do you trust me?"

Shiro looked up again and saw a lone figure standing farther down the corridor: Ulaz. The light surrounding him was dim; if he stepped a few paces farther back, he'd start to vanish into shadow.

"I do," said Shiro, but as he said it, he was again aware that he wasn't wholly sincere. _I trust you to an extent_ , would have been more accurate. Gazing into the Galra's alien eyes—yellow and often unreadable—he asked himself how he could ever put all his faith in Ulaz. He could only guess at the doctor's hidden motivations. Ulaz must have had deeper reasons for his actions. What was really driving him, beneath his reserved exterior? There were times when an odd tension stretched between him and Ulaz, when time seemed to slow. In these moments, Shiro imagined he was about to get a glimpse of the truth, but the truth, if there was one, never materialized.

Shiro understood the Galra doctor better now than he ever had, but there were so many truths concerning him he didn't, and couldn't, know. The gap between them may have been too wide to bridge. Ulaz was watching Shiro now, as if weighing the validity of his answer. Finally, he bared his teeth—was it a smile or show of aggression? Shiro could see how sharp his teeth were. If the two of them were so different, could they have things in common, as Shiro had said?

The counting. The one to ten scale. Ulaz adding "as much as we can" to his encouragement of trust. Shiro wanted to believe it, to believe in all of it. He wanted to know that he wasn't alone here. Could it be that the strain and stress of repeated injuries, combined with that desire, had made him see connections that weren't really there?

No, he remembered Ulaz standing over him, gazing down at him, telling him and showing him that he was present, at times when he had no way of knowing that Shiro was capable of perceiving him. Shiro would be dead now, if not for Ulaz. He was sure of it. But did Ulaz want something from him, in return for his assistance?

As Shiro was carried slowly onward, the person waiting ahead of him started to grow. Shiro had been so sure it was Ulaz, but he lost that impression as it grew taller and broader and more distorted, quickly shedding its distinct and familiar form. When its transformation had finished, it was towering and shadowy. Its pale eyes blazed with purplish light.

Until then, Shiro hadn't been able or willing to move himself. He had placidly allowed himself to be carried along. When those glowing eyes focused on him, fear seized at his chest. He tried to turn and run, but he stumbled instead and fell to the ground. The floor was so smooth. On his hands and knees, he scrabbled for purchase, desperate to escape from the figure that was now behind him. He managed to crawl a few feet, but he couldn't go far or fast enough. The thing behind him was huge, and it must already be bearing down on him. Shiro felt an incredible malice emanating from it, almost physical in its intensity. He was slipping on the floor, but he kept going, breath rasping in his throat. His body ached all over.

While the floor had been carrying him along, he'd stood passive and still, drifting calmly without feeling either welcomed or alarmed. The calm had disappeared into panic. He was in so much pain. Why was this happening to him? Where had Ulaz gone? "Ulaz, please, I need you!" Maybe he had learned to trust him, because Ulaz was the first person he called out for. "Please."

Shiro was aware of warmth and wetness spreading across his abdomen. As he continued to crawl, he felt that same wetness on his hands. His fingers were dark with it. He was bleeding. He'd thought the floor was slippery because it was smooth, but no, it was the blood that made it so hard to traverse. There was blood on his hands and probably his knees. It had splashed across his forearms. A person couldn't lose this much blood and keep moving. He should have passed out by now, if this blood was all his.

Should he do that? He could pass out. He could close his eyes, and this would be over. Whatever was going to happen would happen. If he stopped moving, he could finally rest. He wouldn't feel this panic or pain anymore. His body grew so heavy, every part of it taking on so much weight, it became difficult to move. His eyelids, too, felt weighed down, and they started to fall. If he could lie down—a short respite might help him feel stronger.

He was about to close his eyes when he heard his name. "Shiro—" The voice calling for him was coming from somewhere up ahead, in the opposite direction from the shadowy figure that had filled him with dread. Shiro faced the sound as he tried to crawl a little farther down the hall. It was dark ahead of him, too. The walls—were they closer together now than they had been? The hallway couldn't be narrowing, could it?

"Shiro!"

The voice granted him focus, making it possible for him to keep moving. It wasn't Ulaz's voice, but it was familiar to him. He should be able to place it. If not for the pain and weariness, he was sure he would have.

"Shiro." From the darkness ahead of him, a slight figure emerged.

"Keith?"

It was Keith. From Earth. Looking like his usual self, scowling, not at Shiro, but in concentration. Keith leaned down, taking hold of Shiro's arm to pull him up. "Come with me."

"Keith, why are you here? You shouldn't be here."

It was impossible for him to be here, but Keith grunted realistically as he helped Shiro rise. Impossible though he was, Shiro allowed Keith to lift him up. "Hurry," Keith said. "We have to go."

Keith both looked and felt so genuine. Turning his head, Shiro saw the separate strands of Keith's hair curling slightly around his ears and neck. The presence of his friend filled him with relief. This was someone he could trust at once, without reservation. "I missed you," he said. "How did you get here?"

"That doesn't matter. You can't give up. You have to keep fighting."

"Fighting—" That word had much more weight for him than it used to, after so many battles in the arena. So many opponents, so many deaths. "I'm tired of fighting."

"Don't say that!" Keith snapped. Shiro had seen his temper in action before, but he usually wasn't on the receiving end of it. 

He didn't take the harsh tone personally, focusing on limping forward at Keith's side. "Okay. Look. I'm moving."

More gently than before, Keith said, "Good." He was wearing street clothes instead of his Garrison uniform, but his expression was as grim as if he were heading for the battlefield.

"Are you all right?" Shiro asked.

"You're asking that about _me_?" Keith exhaled, incredulous. "You can't stop moving now. Do you hear me, Shiro?"

"I hear you." Shiro knew Keith was fierce and determined, but he'd never seen him so driven to this extent before. He resembled a soldier more than a student.

"It's going to get harder."

By the miracle of Keith's presence, Shiro's strength was returning. He was able to move again, and managed to speed up his pace, if not enough. The sense of the dangerous presence behind him didn't lessen as his speed increased. He didn't turn to look back over his shoulder, but he could feel the menace bearing down on him.

"Keith, look, I need you to tell everyone back home—"

"There's no time," said Keith. He hurried Shiro onward, until he came to a sudden halt in front of an open doorway. Keith fixed the door with a curious glare, so Shiro turned, too. It was the first door he'd seen along this hallway. Peering inside, Shiro had to blink. The room beyond was full of an eerie, purple light, of the same tone that so balefully lit much of the Galra ship. Inside, backlit by that light, the shapes of people moved. Shiro could make them out only as silhouettes. Their outlines were enough for him to tell that they were Galra, but that was all he could tell.

"What are they doing?" Shiro asked. Keith shouldn't have been there, but Shiro found himself appealing to him as the expert on this place. He seemed to know more than Shiro did.

"Nothing good," was Keith's reply.

Shiro felt dizzy. Keith was holding him upright, but at the same time, the dim shapes in the purple-lit room appeared to be leaning over him like the shadowy form in the hall, rather than standing in front of him. Was he standing up or lying down? He couldn't stop watching the figures as they shifted and swayed. Or was he the one who was doing that? Arms reached out toward him from within the room, but they didn't manage to make contact with him. Here in the hall, he remained untouched.

"Keep going," Keith urged him on.

"I don't think—," Shiro began, as he followed Keith's command. "You can't really be here, but I wanted to tell you that I miss you. If I don't ever get to see you again—"

He turned his head as far as he could toward Keith, but their respective positions made it hard for Shiro to see his expression. "Don't talk that way," said Keith.

Shiro was feeling heavy again, this time weighed down by the thought of letting Keith down. Keith had looked up to him. He'd counted on him to come back. Shiro hated the thought of leaving him on his own. "I'm sorry," he said. He'd had a lot to live up to, when leaving on his mission. So many expectations to uphold. He'd known he was only himself and not a hero, whatever a hero was. It was as _himself_ that he hadn't wanted to disappoint anyone, least of all Keith.

"I don't want you to apologize," Keith replied. "I want you to live."

"You're right," said Shiro. "I need to focus on that, first." Moving onward, he let Keith continue to support him, but it wasn't long before they arrived at another doorway. This one was wider than the previous one, and the hallway here appeared narrower, unless that was a trick of the light and darkness. "Wait," said Shiro, as Keith attempted to pull him forward.

Through the door shone the same purple light from before, and more arms, attached to indistinct bodies, reached for him. Again, the arms were unable to make contact, but Shiro shivered, and an unpleasant tingling spread across his skin. "What's happening to me?"

"Shiro," said Keith, "please come with me."

His body continued to weigh him down. It had become almost too heavy for him to keep it moving. His limbs felt stiffer than they had when he'd started traveling down this corridor, but he kept on. "You can't let them win," said Keith. "I told you, keep fighting."

"That wasn't Ulaz in there, in the room," said Shiro. "Is someone doing something to me? I have to know."

"Trust me," said Keith. "You can't go there now."

"I won't, I won't," murmured Shiro. He didn't have the strength of will to argue with Keith. He wasn't easy to argue with.

"Just stay with me. I know what I'm doing." Keith's voice had softened again. "I can't lose you."

Hadn't Keith already lost Shiro? There were so many people Shiro wanted to see again, not only Keith. His parents, the rest of his family, his friends—even acquaintances—and so many of the staff and officers at the Garrison. None of whom he was likely to see again. They probably all thought he was dead, by now. He'd lost track of the days and weeks since he'd been captured by the Galra, but it wouldn't have been rational for anyone to assume he might still be alive after so much time had passed. No one on Earth could have imagined a truth like this. He wouldn't have been able to, before his capture. The Galra and their empire were powerful and vast. Humanity had had no way of knowing the danger that lay beyond the loose borders of the solar system.

Only he knew the truth now. No, also Doctor Holt and Matt. They were out there. Or he hoped they were. How long had it been since he had last seen them? They'd both been taken away from him. He could clearly remember the last time he'd seen Matt's face, gazing up at him with tears in his eyes. Such a sharp, sad look. He hated to recall it, but his mind kept showing it to him, often when he least wanted to see it. "I let them down," said Shiro.

"Let who down? That doesn't sound like you."

Shiro blinked. The voice at his side was no longer Keith's. Turning his head, he saw a wealth of brown hair and familiar bright brown eyes. "You're so heavy, Shiro," said Matt, with an exaggerated sigh. "But I'll try not to let _you_ down."

Where had Keith gone? Shiro wanted to see him again, but he also didn't want Matt to leave. It would be best if they could both with him, if they were back at the Garrison again. No—No, as much as he wanted to be back there, and as much as he wished this had never happened, he was aware of one important fact: if he hadn't been taken captive, then no one from Earth would know of the threat. In an odd, uncomforting way, it was good that this had happened, but if he never made it back to Earth, it would be for nothing. Unfortunately, not only was the prospect of his escape unlikely, it was more unlikely that he would be able to bring Matt and Doctor Holt back with him. "I didn't do enough to protect you."

"Are you kidding me?" Matt's incredulous tone bordered on laughter. "I don't know what you're talking about. You pretty much did everything humanly possible. Look, Shiro, don't worry about me now."

"Have you seen Keith?" Shiro was still wondering where Keith had gone. Had he fallen behind? That wasn't like him at all.

"Don't worry about him, either. You're the most important person right now. Number one. We really need to go faster. Just a little. Can you manage that? I know it's tough, but if anyone can do it, it's you."

"Can I?"

"Sure, you can!"

Matt was almost cheerful enough to fool Shiro into thinking he was in a good mood. Almost, not quite. "Okay. I'm going." As they passed down the corridor, with Shiro painfully managing to pick up speed, more doorways opened to their right and to their left. This time, Shiro kept his gaze directed straight ahead. He wouldn't let himself turn to look, but he couldn't completely escape from the vague impression of purple light and dark forms. Ahead, there was only—nothing. Was there any end to this corridor?

"We can do it," said Matt. "We'll be okay, if we keep going."

Shiro wasn't used to being the one to lean on someone else. Before, he'd been the leader, the helper, the one others could depend on. Here in captivity, he didn't have anyone to lean on. Or he hadn't. Now, there was Ulaz. Quiet, determined, confusing Ulaz. Shiro was reminded of his dilemma again—if he _could_ trust him, then how far? He should ask Matt about Ulaz. It would help to have the opinion of someone he _knew_ he could trust.

Before he had the chance to ask him anything, a sudden pain shot through him, from his forearm up toward his shoulder. His abdomen started to throb. "Shiro." Matt said his name again, but he sounded farther away. Was he no longer at Shiro's side? Then who was holding him up?

"Keep fighting—!" That was Keith's voice again, also from a distance. A surge of panic accompanied another surge of pain, as Shiro turned his head to see who was standing with him now.

That shadowy, tall shape greeted him: the beast with the glowing eyes. It was both monstrous and indistinct, and Shiro stifled a cry of alarm. He didn't want it to hear that he was afraid, but it was too late for stealth. It had caught up with him. He had no idea when or how that had happened, and he couldn't guess where Keith and Matt had gone. He called out for them both, but there was no answer now. Were they safe? He wanted their safety, more than anything.

Keith's last words lingered in his consciousness: _keep fighting_. He was pushed to the limits of his strength, but it didn't matter if he was too weak and had no chance of victory. He was going to fight. There was no choice involved in the matter. As he had so many times in the arena, he lunged toward his much larger opponent.

It was hard to breathe in his current state, and even harder to move. When he was sent to the arena, the Galra made some effort beforehand to ensure that he was in fighting condition. That wasn't the case now. He was barely in standing condition. Yet he managed to lift his arm and strike.

He made contact. The figure had the appearance of concentrated shadow, but it had mass. If it had a solid form, it could be attacked. Shiro had never let long odds or an intimidating opponent stop him. It would be a hard fight, but it wasn't hopeless, because he couldn't allow it to be. The figure grabbed at him, taking hold of his arms. He struggled in its grasp and managed to free an arm. Once it was freed, he struck again, his fist making contact with the creature's shoulder. He panted with the effort. His own breath made his throat ache.

He expected violence in return for his own, but instead, the figure grasped him again, attempting to immobilize him. Shiro shuddered. He felt a horror of being restrained. He'd rather be in pain than unable to move. He kept fighting, as Keith had urged him, kicking with his legs when his arms were pinned, then using his head, driving the top of it into the creature's chest. He wouldn't admit defeat. He'd die before he did that.

"Shiro."

His name, again? People kept calling his name. He was more startled by the sound this time, because it was the creature who had spoken. He wasn't startled enough to stop fighting, but his focus was shaken. The next punch he attempted didn't land.

"I don't intend to harm you," said the creature, confusing him further. If it wasn't going to harm him, why was it here? What else was he supposed to fight?

"Shiro, I think you can hear me. Will you open your eyes?"

His eyes were already open. He was staring at that thing as it spoke to him, yet everything suddenly felt wrong. He wasn't where he was supposed to be, and the creature wasn't what it looked like. Realistically, there was no way he could have made his way to an unending corridor, especially one that looked nothing like the many hallways of a Galra ship. There were no unending corridors. This wasn't real. 

_Open your eyes_ , he told himself, to see if anything would happen. He concentrated, and—they opened. He looked out on his actual surroundings: the walls of his cell.

He found himself gazing down at Ulaz, from the unusual perspective of being on top of him. The Galra's eyes were fixed on him, unblinking. Ulaz was lying on the floor, and Shiro was straddling him, leaning forward. Ulaz's hands were at Shiro's sides, securing Shiro's arms. Shiro struggled to adjust to the complete and abrupt shift of his senses. Ulaz was bleeding. His skin had split at his lip and at his eyebrow ridge, and there was a smear of darker color at each wound, blood staining the white hair of his eyebrow. Shiro was conscious of the closeness of Ulaz's body—not so much close as pressed against him. Ulaz had made physical contact with him before while treating him, but never to this extent. Shiro did trust him, but that didn't change the fact that he was Galra. Shiro began to shudder involuntarily.

"Can you understand me?" Ulaz asked.

"Let me go."

"Of course I will." Ulaz loosed his grip immediately.

Shiro exhaled and shifted his arms, relieved to have the use of them again. "What happened?"

"When I removed your restraints, you started to fight me."

"And you didn't fight back."

"I took action to defend myself. But no, you weren't fully conscious. I wasn't going to injure you." Ulaz continued to gaze up at him steadily. As Shiro held his gaze, he belatedly realized that he was still sitting on top of Ulaz, and Ulaz had made no move to unburden himself. That was unusual, and it was unusual that a Galra under attack hadn't made any offensive moves of his own—even if it was Ulaz. Judging by Ulaz's injuries, Shiro must have been punching him in the face, yet there had been no retaliation. Shiro could detect a host of faint aches in his body, as if from previous procedures and old injuries, but he didn't feel like someone who'd been in a fight moments before. They were older pains, nothing fresh. Ulaz hadn't hurt him, although he easily could have. Shiro hadn't learned to expect peaceful responses from Galra.

"What—" Shiro began. He broke off, not sure how he'd been intending to finish that sentence. "Why?" he asked instead.

"Because I don't wish to."

"I should get up."

"Let me help you." 

Shiro felt a jolt of automatic anxiety as the clawed Galra hands reached for him so directly, but Ulaz's touch was light and sure. Shiro was gently moved out of Ulaz's lap, and he was still dazed enough to allow himself to be guided without making much of an effort of his own. There was a continuing intensity in the way Ulaz was looking at him that he wasn't sure how to interpret. He couldn't assume that Galra gestures and expressions reflected the same emotions that humans' did. They were a completely different species. 

Yet Ulaz's emotion seemed strikingly clear once Shiro was seated independently on the floor. Ulaz pushed his head forward, bringing his face into contact with Shiro's. Shiro tensed, but his initial aggressive response was transformed into bewilderment as Ulaz's cheek brushed against his. Ulaz's skin was cool to the touch and smoother than he would have guessed. The contact between them lasted only an instant, and once it was done, Ulaz and Shiro sat staring at each other again. Ulaz looked as surprised as Shiro felt.

"What was that?" Shiro asked. He couldn't help the sharpness in his tone. That wasn't only new behavior from Ulaz. It was outside of the realm of what was expected between them.

"I apologize," said Ulaz. "I shouldn't have done that."

"You didn't answer my question."

"It's a Galran gesture of affection and concern."

_Affection._ That was a level of trust he hadn't been ready to commit to, but Ulaz apparently had made that leap. If he'd been asked before now, he might have said that Galra didn't have such gestures, but it made sense. They were social creatures, if not friendly to strangers. They must have complex and varied interpersonal relationships, as humans did, and a whole host of social cues that he knew nothing about. "I understand," said Shiro slowly. He was going to accept this explanation. Out of trust. 

"I meant no offense."

As surprising as the touch had been, it hadn't felt invasive or grasping. On Earth, there were numerous people who greeted each other in similar ways. What had unnerved Shiro most about it was that Ulaz was a Galra. Ulaz had never, to his knowledge, been unkind to him, but he couldn't suppress the pang of nervousness that sped up his heart when a Galra touched him. If not for his feelings toward the Galra as whole, Shiro might have found the gesture reassuring. "That's fine. I don't mind." He wasn't going to let himself mind. He couldn't afford to worry about that now.

"Let me take some readings," said Ulaz, changing the subject. "Your behavior after I freed you from your restraints was unusual."

So Ulaz wasn't the only one behaving oddly. As the subject had been changed, Shiro didn't bring it up again, sitting back quietly as Ulaz took his readings. For now, he was willing to let the subject drop, but he wondered what it would mean for Ulaz, as a doctor on a military ship, if he were discovered freeing his patient from his restraints and making affectionate gestures toward him. Wouldn't that be seen as disloyal? It wouldn't be looked on kindly, he was sure of that. The Galra didn't look kindly on much, as far as he'd seen.

"Has anyone else been in here with you?" Ulaz asked. "Other than the usual guards and staff."

"I don't know. I don't remember." Shiro didn't enjoy providing such uncertain answers. He would rather be direct and precise, but he was being honest. Since he'd become a prisoner, there were large chunks of time he had no way of accounting for. "I had a dream—"

"What did you dream?"

"There were arms, reaching out to me. I felt like they were doing something to me. I was in pain." Shiro didn't go into further detail on the dream, not wanting to share his conversations with his friends.

Ulaz didn't pry further. "You speak to me while you're dreaming, sometimes."

"Do I?"

"You call me by human names."

"I dream about my friends. Do Galra dream?"

"We do. I don't dream often. Or if I do, I don't remember what I've dreamed." Ulaz frowned down at the instrument in his hands. "Someone must have been here. Something's been done to you. I can't say what, but these readings are unusual. Your body chemistry has been altered."

"Altered? How?"

He hadn't expected a thoroughly detailed answer from Ulaz, but he received one, not that it did him much good. As well as he was usually able to understand Ulaz, he didn't recognize the Galra medical terms, and when Ulaz was done with his explanation, he didn't ask him to explain further. "This equipment isn't precise enough," added Ulaz. "I wish I could tell you more. I was concerned that this might happen when they moved you to a private cell. It's not unheard of for them to do that, but it's unusual. I had hoped they were inspired only by your popularity."

Panic started to tighten Shiro's throat. He had to fight to remain calm. _Breathe, Shiro. You can do that._ Being forced to fight for entertainment was bad enough; becoming someone's science experiment was worse. "What are they doing to me?"

"I have no knowledge of any work being done on you. Doctors such as myself are considered mid-level personnel. There are researchers who are far higher ranking. They wouldn't share information about their projects with someone like me."

"Why are they so interested in me now? They couldn't have cared less about me when I first came here." He had wanted them to show him some consideration, and to treat him as someone worth treating with respect. He had since realized they didn't understand respect or offer it to anyone. It probably would have been better to escape their notice, but he hadn't managed that.

"That is true. But you win against them. Over and over. Galra respect victory, even if they don't respect the victor."

Yes. That was why they called him the champion. Why they shouted that name in the arena. Asking for him. Making demands of him. Often demanding that he die. _The victor._ "Are there other patients like me, Ulaz? Who you're helping this way?"

"I have many other patients."

Shiro doubted that these _other patients_ had earned gestures of affection and extensive explanations from him. "Others like me?"

"I admit that you're different."

Shiro appreciated his honesty in this, but he didn't stop pressing. "Is it because I keep winning? Is that why? And you respect that, too."

"It isn't the only reason."

Shiro sighed. "Sometimes I have the feeling, when we're talking, that we've already had the same discussion. Would you tell me if we had?"

"I probably wouldn't."

"No, you'd just answer my questions again. Patiently."

"That's right. There's no point in distressing you further."

Shiro would rather know the truth, even if it was about his memory failing. He tried to be irritated at Ulaz's response, but he couldn't manage it. Ulaz was trying to be kind. "Thanks, Ulaz."

"You're welcome, Shiro."

"What's the other reason, then? If it's not just my winning streak."

This time, there was no explanation forthcoming. "There are things I can't tell you."

"I know. I didn't really expect you to answer."

Having finished his readings, Ulaz had tucked his medical equipment back into his belt, where he usually carried it, then double checked to make sure everything was in order. It was a familiar series of small, quick gestures, and Shiro smiled faintly at the sight. When Ulaz looked up at him again, Shiro was still smiling. Ulaz returned the gesture, a slight upturn of the edges of his mouth. Shiro was reminded of Ulaz's smooth skin sliding against his own, and he considered Ulaz's face, which was still marked with blood at his lips and his brow.

"You do realize you're injured," Shiro said.

"Am I?"

"You mean to tell me a doctor doesn't know that?"

"I do feel sore, but I believed I was only bruised."

"No, I broke your skin. There are cuts on your face. I'm sorry."

"You didn't intend any harm. I don't believe you knew what you were doing." Ulaz had withdrawn one of his medical instruments again. Shiro recognized some of them now, although Ulaz had never given him a detailed explanation of what they were used for. "Would you be able to assist me?" Ulaz stretched out his hand, presenting the instrument to Shiro.

"I can. If you'd like me to." Shiro took the undoubtedly valuable and delicate equipment from Ulaz's hand. Based on what he'd seen, Galra medical technology far outstripped what was available to doctors on Earth. On Earth, they wouldn't have been able to patch him up so many times, in so many different ways. On Earth, the authorities also hadn't purposefully subjected him to grievous bodily harm on multiple occasions. "What should I do?"

"I'm going to turn it on for you. Much of our technology doesn't respond to non-Galra. Here." He repositioned the object in Shiro's hand, then touched a part of it that had no evident button or switch. Red light poured out of the end of the narrow, wand-like object. Shiro kept a careful hold on it.

"Run the light slowly over the injuries. You'll see them start to close up as the light moves over the broken skin, so you'll know it's working." Ulaz paused. "And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't shine the light into my eyes."

"Easy enough," said Shiro. As he aimed the light and moved it steadily over first one cut and then the other, he reflected on how, when he'd met Ulaz, he'd contemplated attacking him as part of an escape plan. Their relationship had changed a great deal since then. He could no more consider that course of action than he could have considered attacking any friend in earnest. He had attacked Matt, but that had been an act of desperation, meant to save him. He hoped that it had worked.

Ulaz waited patiently, sitting very still while Shiro healed his injuries. There was something satisfying about watching the cuts close up, healing before his eyes. If only everything could be fixed so neatly. When Shiro was done, he handed the instrument back to Ulaz, and Ulaz tucked it neatly into his belt again, before asking, "Who are Matt and Keith?"

Ulaz was set on surprising him today. He didn't know how many more surprises he could take. "Did I mention them?" Ulaz had said he called out human names in his sleep, so he wasn't surprised that those were two of them. "They're friends of mine. Matt was one of the people who were with me, on the mission. It was Matt and his father, Doctor Holt. Keith—he's still back on Earth." The memory of his friends bolstered him, but the lack of their presence and his uncertainties about them robbed him of some of the strength they gave him. He should be there for them. He wasn't. He had managed to string together enough words to describe them with more ease than he would have thought possible. It wasn't easy, but _easier_. It had been getting easier to speak with Ulaz, generally. "We were all together at the Galaxy Garrison. That's the school where I trained to be a pilot."

Ulaz was listening attentively, and he nodded. "I've wanted to ask you about them for some time."

"Did you?"

"You speak of them often. I knew they must be important to you. Perhaps you can tell me more about them, sometime. I would like to hear, but now I must go." He rose to his feet.

It would have been courting danger for Ulaz to linger here too long. Shiro had no illusions about their doctor-patient relationship and its limitations, but he experienced a sense of regret that Ulaz had to leave him. He felt it more keenly than he had before.

"If I can find more information about your situation, then I will."

"Ulaz, I don't think it's a good idea for you to get too involved with that." Shiro didn't want the doctor risking his life by interfering with the plans of higher-ranking military personnel. His situation was already bad enough here. The simple act of contemplating his life without the respite provided by his visits from Ulaz alarmed him. 

Ulaz blinked at him, slowly. "I won't take an unnecessary risk. I'm only a physician."

"I don't know if I believe that." Looking up at the Galra standing over him, Shiro remembered that Ulaz had openly admitted that there were things he couldn't tell him. Whatever they were, he gave none of them away. His expression was as neutral as it usually was. There were no more fond gestures. When Shiro asked himself what Ulaz's secrets could be, he suddenly had a range of theories, and no answers. The more he knew about Ulaz, the more he had to be curious about.

"You're welcome to believe as you wish," said Ulaz, but there was a note in his voice that wasn't quite serious.

"You talk to me about human jokes, but I think you might be worse."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I can't tell if you're joking or not."

"I've heard that Galra have terrible senses of humor," Ulaz admitted.

"There you go again."

"I am going again, yes." Ulaz didn't leave at once. He paused and stood at the door, turning back toward Shiro as if reluctant to depart. Shiro had the feeling that, in another moment's time, Ulaz was going to say something significant, maybe to answer one of the many questions Shiro had about him. Shiro waited, but the moment never came. Ulaz opened the cell door and disappeared through it.


	7. Combat Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haxus has a warning, Shiro has an episode, Thace has an announcement—and Ulaz has a choice to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay between chapters! I've now decided that _Operating Procedures_ will be ten chapters long, but after that, there _may_ be a sequel.

Ulaz started awake, his eyes snapping open in the darkness, his body rising automatically into a sitting position. His breath came rough and quick. His skin was dry, and cold all over. Where was he? What had caused this sick feeling in his stomach? As his mind analyzed what he was seeing in front of him, an instant's disorientation quickly resolved into the familiar sight of his quarters. The room was almost completely dark. Only the purple lights circling the base of the wall glowed dimly. For reasons of safety and security, no part of a Galra ship was ever entirely without light, save an isolation cell or a similar specific, secure space. Many species would have found his quarters too dark to move through with confidence, but Galra were adapted to see in low levels of light, so it presented Ulaz with no difficulty. Humans would probably have found navigating here a challenge.

There—his thoughts had gone to humans almost at once. Not a promising sign. He had been faced with a number of unfortunate signs lately. One of them was whatever had startled him awake. He had been honest when he'd told Shiro that he rarely dreamed, or had few memories of whatever dreams he did have. He had nonetheless been awakened by a dream, he was sure. True to his words to Shiro, he had already forgotten it, such a short time later. Yet a sense of dread lingered with him.

Ulaz's hand went to his communicator, always in reach. He checked the time. All ship's personnel had an assigned schedule, with designated periods of readiness. _Readiness_ meant they were permitted to sleep, or engage in approved forms of recreation and socialization, but personnel had to be constantly prepared to shift from inactivity into active duty. Divergence from the designated schedule was possible, but had to be applied for in advance. Permission was not lightly granted. Ulaz was still within his assigned readiness period. He had no duty to report to. He could do as he saw fit, as long as he didn't defy any regulations, of which there were many.

His communicator shone faintly in his hand, its light the same color as the lights by the floor. Ulaz studied the device's glow for several seconds without acting. He had ways to contact some of his fellow Blades. They secured communications as well as they could, and some means of contact were more labyrinthine than others, depending on which operative he needed to reach. He would never reach out to another Blade unless he had a convincing reason to do so. Caution was a predominant concern, until other concerns eclipsed it, as they did when a situation became more urgent. He had to ask himself: how urgent was the situation he currently found himself in?

There was a level of urgency. Action was called for. After Ulaz had weighed his options and made a decision, he sent a message by text. His words shone on the dark screen: _Did you see the recent round of fights?_ All transmissions were monitored, but social messages were allowed, within reason. 

The response came quickly: _I did._

_I'd like to discuss them with you,_ Ulaz wrote. It wasn't out of the ordinary for the most casual social messages to be phrased formally. As everyone was aware they were being monitored, everyone was careful. Socialization was permitted, as long as it didn't interfere with operations, but it wasn't casual, and freedom of expression was limited.

There was a pause, this time, before a response came. _When?_

Ulaz's answer was a transmission of his schedule, with the relevant readiness periods marked. This sufficiently indicated his availability, without giving away anything other than public information.

The reply he received was similarly simple: a time and a familiar sector. No question, no comment, no personal remark. Good. They could meet. That was enough. Their appointment didn't fall within his current readiness period; he would have to wait for the next one. He'd expected that, as he had provided little notice. He responded again, with a single word: _Confirmed_.

That was done.

On military ships and in other offworld military facilities, time wasn't divided into days and nights, but each cycle of duty shifts corresponded to the cycle of a day and night as experienced by those who lived on a planet. Or one particular planet, because the length and division of the cycle were based on the days and nights of Daibazaal. No matter where in the universe a Galra ship was, those living on it felt in their own bodies' rhythms the rotation period of Daibazaal, although the planet itself had been lost so many centuries ago.

Ulaz thought of Daibazaal sometimes. All Galra did. What he felt when he considered their destroyed homeworld was a tangle of emotion that he found difficult to unsnarl, so he did not waste much time on the impossible puzzle of analyzing those feelings. He experienced a similar phenomenon when analyzing his feelings toward Shiro. Shiro was his charge as a medic, and a person of interest to him as a Blade. He should not harbor any kind of personal regard for him, and he most certainly should not have grown "attached" to him.

Though he did not remember the dream that had awakened him, he was sure it had involved Shiro. Thoughts of the human unsettled him regularly now, and they had done so since long before Ulaz had treated him for the stab wound in his side and had tasted his blood. He was worried about him, and that worry affected his actions, which meant that emotions were already clouding his judgment. Hadn't he been warned about that, so many times? They all were. A Blade could not afford such an impairment. The most minute hesitation or the smallest misstep could compromise an entire mission and cost lives. His own life.

The right course of action would be to cut off or at least severely curtail his relationship with Shiro. There were countless reasons for him to take such a step, yet he hadn't done so. Following Shiro's emergency surgery, he had continued to tend to him with the same attention and care, whenever he was able. The truth, as selfish as it was, was that he didn't _want_ to alter his behavior. 

There may have been a self-interested element to his stubbornness, but it wasn't as if he had no logical reasons to continue in his current course. The human's consistent besting of Galra opponents was not only surprising as an individual accomplishment, but it represented a symbolic victory over the empire as a whole. Ulaz was also aware of the dangerous situation Shiro's planet was in. It had been discovered, but not yet attacked. Galra did not leave inhabited worlds in peace. Even barren planets might be plundered for resources. Planets that contained life were so much more valuable to the empire's researchers and druids. Earth had the potential to be particularly valuable, as Ulaz understood the situation.

Ulaz had seen too many worlds destroyed, as Daibazaal had been destroyed. Action had had to be taken to preserve Shiro's planet. For Earth to have a chance of survival, Shiro's life and health also had to be preserved. Ulaz's personal interest was only one factor that had led him to this ultimate conclusion.

Yet his logic might be flawed, because he had been compromised. Ulaz sat on the edge of his bed, gazing at his hands, considering his difficulty from all angles. He could envision his hands stained with Shiro's blood. He could recall the taste of that same blood in his mouth, and he couldn't bring himself to regret tasting it. He had made mistakes, but that didn't mean he wasn't right. 

Since Shiro had been wounded by the guards, Ulaz had not seen those particular guards again. Far from reassuring them, the disappearances were a concern. Were they the result of Commander Sendak's mercurial retribution, or were they signs of another force at work? For there were numerous forces at play within the empire, not only the great force of Zarkon bearing down on all of them.

Ulaz didn't like to sit and stare and do nothing, so he rose to his feet. He could tell, without having to make the attempt beforehand, that he wouldn't be able to return to sleep. The restlessness in him originated in his heart, where it manifested as a tightness throughout his chest and a quickening severity of heartbeat. From his chest, unease was pumped throughout his body, invading even his extremities. He curled and uncurled his fingers, feeling the tips of his claws press against the palms of his hands.

Since his conversation with the commander, no officers, medical or otherwise, had approached Ulaz regarding his actions in the medical bay. That silence was more unnerving than the disappearance of the guards. It wasn't unheard of for people to disappear—but to remain unpunished following a flagrant violation of the rules? That was not in keeping with the way of the empire.

Ulaz's room was small and sparsely furnished, like most ship's quarters, barring those of the highest ranking officers. Ulaz generally didn't mind the size, but in this moment it felt too confining. He couldn't stay there. Now that he was moving, he couldn't stop. Fortunately, he knew a place where movement was encouraged.

Training chambers were found throughout Galra ships, especially on decks where crew members were quartered. Ulaz had no difficulty finding one that was available, as they remained open throughout the ship's cycle. It was expected to see soldiers and other personnel training there at any time, since schedules rotated, and a significant portion of the crew was always awake. Galra warships never slept.

Ulaz was signing into the training facilities using his designated code when he became aware of a presence behind him. It wasn't simply an awareness that there was a person there. That person was also watching him. Ulaz could sense a gaze, focused on him. All Blades were attuned to the force of attention. It created a pressure, which he could feel on the back of his neck.

"Medic." A dry, cold voice addressed him. Ulaz sensed that his manner should be as respectful as possible, and he was already starting to salute before he turned. "Vrepit sa, Lieutenant," said Ulaz, noting the newcomer's rank and identity as he faced him. His long face and downturned ears were immediately recognizable, his gold eyes glaring from beneath sharply peaked eyebrows.

Lieutenant Haxus served under Commander Sendak and worked closely with him. Ulaz had had little cause to converse with Haxus in the past, but he knew him to be officious, loyal, and extremely dedicated to the empire, as well as to his superior officer—a combination Ulaz didn't care for, but found usefully predictable. Haxus returned his salute "Vrepit sa!"

It was an ordinary encounter between ship's personnel. There was nothing to mark it as unusual, especially near the training rooms, where persons of all positions and ranks might be found, but Ulaz was suspicious. In part, because he'd been addressed as "medic", which indicated a particular interest or intent on the part of Haxus.

"Devoting your readiness period to training displays admirable commitment," said Haxus.

"It is our duty to remain prepared for any eventuality," Ulaz replied, careful about saying anything that might be seen as accepting personal praise.

Unsought attention from any quarter could expose a Blade to life-threatening danger. Scrutiny was to be avoided, as it could lead to exposure. Interpersonal dealings on board any ship were fraught with politics and jockeying for positioning. Any notable action might be taken as an attempt to advance in rank.

"Yet your ambition does you credit," said Haxus.

Ulaz understood what he meant by the use of the word _ambition_. It was considered a virtue among Galra, but it could be dangerous to be accused of it—by those who believed their own positions were jeopardized by that ambition.

"My ambition is to improve my skills as a medic and so serve the commander and the emperor," said Ulaz firmly.

"I would say that serving the lower orders makes you little more than a technician," Haxus observed, with a slight, skeptical tilt of his head. "Surely there are ways you can benefit the empire more."

Ulaz already knew what he should say on that subject. "To assure that the prisoners are fit and ready to provide service or information is of great benefit, where both intelligence and ship's morale are concerned. Gladiatorial combat is a proud Galra tradition that unites and energizes us." In other words, he needed to convince Haxus of the lie that he both wanted and enjoyed his designated role and didn't seek higher office or a move from medicine into a military position. Soldiers were considered superior to doctors, and it wasn't uncommon for someone in a position similar to Ulaz's to reach for a more coveted post among the ranks of warriors.

"While your words are true, your actions indicate another interest," said Haxus, unconvinced.

It was difficult to convince anyone that one lacked ambition in an atmosphere so rife with suspicion. "My actions were for the benefit of the arena." He didn't mention the patient. He couldn't appear to be concerned with Shiro's welfare. Shiro was to be considered an animal at best, and a mere object at worst.

"Yes," said Haxus drily, "once the commander had involved himself."

Haxus' position under Commander Sendak was a prized one, and the commander had the authority to promote whoever he wanted to promote, at will. _He_ could make a medic into a military officer. Ulaz had defied regulations to uphold the commander's orders, from necessity, but being promoted to serve under Sendak was not only at odds with the purpose of his mission. It went against his personal preferences.

Yet loyal Haxus wouldn't be able to conceive of a reason why another Galra wouldn't covet his position. Serving as a lieutenant under imperial favorite Sendak made him effectively higher ranking than other lieutenants, lending him increased influence and undoubtedly a range of other benefits.

"I consider the commander's orders with the necessary gravity," Ulaz said calmly. "If he accords my charges importance, then so do I."

"It's true that the commander has an interest in the Champion," Haxus admitted, "but your efforts were notably individualistic."

"There are many who have an interest in the Champion," said Ulaz, keeping the emotion from his voice. This maneuvering was tense, and more delicate than the movements of a battle. "As I said, I do what is in the best interest of the emperor and my superiors. No more." While someone like Sendak could get away with a measure of individualism, this was not the case for someone of Ulaz's rank. It would not benefit him to be seen in that light.

"If that is true, then I am pleased to hear it. You should remember your place."

"I have never forgotten it, Lieutenant." Ulaz lowered his head respectfully, regretting—not for the first time—that he had drawn the attention of the commander, and now, the related ire of his immediate subordinate. Fortunately, this private conversation indicated that Haxus was warning him instead of seeking to punish him, which was concerning, but not alarming.

"Then we understand each other."

"We do." Ulaz understood Haxus better than Haxus knew.

"To confirm our understanding—," Haxus nodded toward the entrance to the training chamber, "—let us test each other in combat."

It was a common request. Disputes were often settled and decisions finalized through battle. Ulaz was sure Haxus sought to _show_ him his place as well as tell him. "I would be honored," Ulaz said. He also had no choice, as a higher ranking officer had proposed the fight.

As he entered the chamber with Haxus, Ulaz faced another delicate situation. Between Galra, combat was a means of communication that had more import than conversation. He had to project strength and reliability—but also humility. He couldn't win.

A formal battle usually involved weapons, but this was, nominatively, an informal training bout. Ulaz wasn't surprised when Haxus didn't suggest weapons, although he would have been within his rights to do. As the term "readiness period" suggested, a warship crew member was always ready to fight. Ulaz and Haxus were included in that category. As they took up their combat positions, Ulaz was fully aware of two things: that he was a better fighter than Haxus, and that he could not allow Haxus to realize that.

He waited. It was Haxus who moved first, lunging toward him. Ulaz waited until the last possible moment to dodge, wanting Haxus to believe he had almost landed a blow. Ulaz, unlike most Galra, had trained with the specific goal of being able to make his skills seem less impressive than they were. Among Galra, superiority in battle was of paramount importance, so it wouldn't occur to many of his people that someone would wish to cloak their true talent, like Ulaz did. He needed to be underestimated and overlooked.

Haxus rushed for him again, underestimating him. This time, Ulaz allowed him to strike. The blow hit his upper arm, but he leapt back quickly enough to lessen the force of the impact. So far, Haxus hadn't used his claws, but Ulaz wouldn't be shocked if claws did pierce his skin. Ulaz preferred to avoid bloodshed, because of his distaste for the idea of Haxus breaking his skin, but if he had to suffer such an indignity for the sake of appearances, then he would.

"You will fall," said Haxus, with the confidence of someone who knew he had the upper hand.

"Never—I'll defeat you," replied Ulaz, with quiet force. This kind of posturing took place in certain kinds of combat. The Blades didn't fight this way. Ulaz saw no use in wasting words, but Haxus took his cues from his admired commander.

Ulaz's focus was on extending the battle long enough to make it believable, but not so long that Haxus felt threatened. Haxus came at him again and again. He was not a poor opponent. He was a great fighter, like any Galra lieutenant, if not a match for an unrestrained Ulaz. Some of the blows that Haxus landed, he earned for himself. Ulaz absorbed the pain, let it strengthen him. Ulaz's strikes were carefully measured. He didn't hit too hard, but hard enough that Haxus could feel he was a true Galra.

When it was over, it was sudden. Haxus, as he had promised, knocked him to the ground. Ulaz lay on his back, gazing up at him. His every muscle was tensed with the longing to do what his instinct demanded—fight back. He held himself still. Haxus leaned over Ulaz, with his claws at Ulaz's throat. "Yield to me."

"I do not yield."

In a fight to the death, Haxus would have torn out Ulaz's throat at this point, but this was a training match, and Haxus, in spite of his suspicions, acted as tradition dictated. "Then I will spare your life. Live with the dishonor of defeat." He did use his claws then, in a light swipe, just enough to break the skin on the side of Ulaz's neck. It stung. Then Haxus drew back, so that Ulaz could rise.

Ulaz now bore a few scratches and more than a few bruises, but they were injuries in keeping with an ordinary practice bout. It was a sign that while Haxus considered him worthy of a warning, he wasn't threatened by him enough to do him any real harm. Ulaz had been successful in managing their fight. Inwardly relieved, he was outwardly deferential as he struck his chest with a fist and saluted his opponent. "Vrepit sa!"

Haxus returned the salute with the expected enthusiasm of the winner, before adding, in confirmation of his earlier words, "We understand each other."

"Yes, Lieutenant!"

"Medic." Like any lieutenant who had successfully disciplined an upstart inferior, Haxus was unconcerned with drawing out pleasantries. He departed abruptly to display his lack of respect.

Ulaz was glad to be rid of him so quickly. Yet he had only assuaged the Lieutenant's suspicions. He hadn't made them disappear. He would remain on Haxus' radar—not a blip with any real importance, but visible and under observation. His mission was in more jeopardy than before. Ulaz had become more eager to make his arranged appointment, but he had to wait for that. If an earlier meeting had been possible, it doubtlessly would have been suggested.

The moment his next duty shift would commence was rapidly approaching. Ulaz had little time left, but he had no plans. He returned to his quarters to wash and change his clothing. He dealt with the shallow wounds on his neck, and then his period of readiness shifted into action. As a medic, he had rounds, but they were not set, as they varied daily based on the number of his patients and their conditions. Ulaz was the only one who knew who he should see to—and when, and why. That gave him a measure of freedom that many other crew members lacked.

Ulaz was aware of where he wanted to go first, but he did not know if he should indulge his urge immediately. He knew he was being watched, although he did not know how many people might be watching him, or with what intensity. He reminded himself constantly that it was of paramount importance that he could not appear to have too close an interest in Shiro. Yet he rationalized, as he usually did, that Shiro was the most important of his charges, under the protection of the commander, so no one would find it unusual if he went to him first.

He lost out to his own reasoning again. He went where he wanted to go: that single cell that was so familiar to him. He found Shiro asleep on the floor. Without waking him, Ulaz scanned the interior of the cell, taking his usual thorough precautions to make sure he wasn't being monitored. The scan was clean. Good. Without drawing too near, Ulaz looked Shiro over: a quiet, visual examination. He appeared uninjured. He was curled up on his side in a corner of the room, with only his hands bound. "Shiro." Ulaz spoke softly. He didn't want to startle him; visual examination aside, he didn't know precisely what condition Shiro was in.

Shiro twitched, and his eyes opened wide. He stared up at Ulaz. The heated emotions that immediately flooded Ulaz raised his temperature. It was a powerful mixture, almost too varied to analyze, although Ulaz could identify concern, affection, and want. He would never press any of these on Shiro, and he kept them carefully sealed inside, kept his face a blank. He had so much practice in doing so that it was easy for him to maintain a neutral expression. He could do so indefinitely.

There was no recognition in Shiro's eyes. He showed surprise, which shortly turned to mistrust. Shiro recoiled from him, drawing his hands up defensively. It was a sight Ulaz hated to see, and one he had been forced to witness with increasing frequency, as the drugs and the trauma predictably continued to erode Shiro's memories and sense of self. Ulaz had seen this happen many times to his patients, although the process was usually not so prolonged, as few of the prisoners survived so long. He never liked to see this change take place, but when it was Shiro who was suffering, the sight cut at him as it never had before. There was an unmitigated hostility on Shiro's face, as he all but growled, "What do you want?"

He had seen Shiro like this before, and he would see him like this again, Ulaz told himself, to steady himself. That thought wasn't as reassuring as he'd hoped, because repetition hadn't hardened him. Each time he had to deal with this was a greater trial than the time before. "It's Ulaz. I'm your doctor." He said this slowly and clearly, yet with the grim knowledge that his words might not reach Shiro, no matter how carefully they were spoken.

"I didn't know you people bothered with doctors for us."

Ulaz's whole body felt bizarrely heavy. Was he going to be able to move again? What if Shiro took it into his head to attack him—would he manage to resist? Or would he let Shiro take the victory and even his life? No, he had to move, to speak, to act as if this was ordinary. He could master himself. For Shiro's good, as well as his own. "You might well question that, but I am here to assist. I'm going to scan you now. I won't need to touch you." These were words he had said before, but he felt as if he were chanting a dirge instead of speaking.

This intensity of feeling was a new experience for him. He had never formed a bond like this with anyone else, though he had created close connections to others, especially his fellow Blades. There were many kinds of bonds that Galra could share with each other. Galra had strong reactions to social connections, with physical manifestations. But this kind of bond: it was instinctive, ancient, and irrational. As a doctor, he knew how it altered the chemistry of the brain and showed no mercy to hormone levels, and—as a result, could strikingly affect the individual's behavior. One could wed or love without such a bond. Some preferred to avoid the phenomenon altogether, since it could interfere with practical matters, such as the matter of serving on a warship. 

Avoiding it, unfortunately, was not so easy, as it wasn't a voluntary process. Yet Ulaz couldn't deceive himself. Actions like engaging in combat or tasting blood could bring it on. There were steps he could have taken to protect himself that he had not taken, but he had also not expected to be caught up in this powerful feeling. He knew that Galra were compatible with other species, but he hadn't believed this would happen to him.

Once it was formed, the connection was nearly impossible to be rid of. It was known as the madness bond as well as the mating bond. One old joke was to refer to it as the _Vrepit sa_ , since it was a killing stroke directly to the heart. It was not expressly forbidden for Blades to make such a connection—but in the middle of a mission, and with someone who was neither a Blade nor a Galra? No, it wasn't unprecedented, but it would draw anyone a harsh reprimand, at least. Logically, Ulaz wanted to free himself from this bond. That would be practical. Emotionally, he wanted to hold on to it with all his strength. He couldn't let it go. Maybe that was irrelevant, as it wouldn't let _him_ go.

He was half in a daze as he started scanning Shiro, moving the instrument slowly and steadily to get his reading. He had been so keenly aware of his surroundings and in control of himself when dealing with Haxus, a person he disliked, but now that he was with Shiro, someone he cared for, he was disoriented and distracted, as Shiro himself was.

"Good, don't touch me," snapped Shiro.

"I won't," said Ulaz. When Shiro was like this, he kept his distance. He wouldn't want to make contact without his consent. He felt more protective of him than he had before, which was natural. Being Galra, he understood that this new state meant he would be willing to die or kill for Shiro without delay. All Galra had things they were willing to die or kill for, although on this ship, most leaned toward killing. As a Blade, he was well prepared to die for his cause, but his feeling toward Shiro was different, more intimate.

"What are you doing to me?" asked Shiro, as the light of the scanner moved over him. He was agitated, twitching and blinking under Ulaz's scrutiny. "Stop it."

"I'm assessing your condition, that's all." Ulaz needed to attain more emotional distance. Or how was he going to manage to perform his duties, either as a doctor or as an operative? What had driven him to arrive at such a state? Anyone would consider it a grave mistake.

"My condition? What do you care what they did to me?" asked Shiro, through gritted teeth.

"Are you injured?" Ulaz's scanning had revealed no significant injuries thus far, but he wasn't finished the process, and he had been maintaining his distance. He might have missed something.

In response, Shiro hissed in what might have pain. Dispensing with his usual caution, Ulaz moved forward to get a better look.

That was when Shiro struck. He leapt up with astonishing speed, and before Ulaz could react, Shiro was swinging his bound hands together. Whoever had bound Shiro had been lazy enough to bind his arms in front of him, instead of behind. Both fists struck Ulaz in the solar plexus, and he found himself reeling. He couldn't remember the last time someone had landed a hit on him like this. He had been lax, and he had paid for it. Shiro had acted aggressively toward him before, but never with such force.

Ulaz was too slow to respond, further delayed by a desire to avoid hurting Shiro. Shiro had no such compunctions, and he swung his fists again, this time making contact with Ulaz's jaw. Ulaz could have called for help, but the last thing he wanted was to have the guards intervene. He tried to evade. If he could immobilize Shiro, however temporarily, he could probably neutralize whatever was causing this aggression—if it was the result of a substance, rather than trauma.

It was too late for that. Shiro was viciously, fatally fast. He fought with all the speed and violence of a Galra. Ulaz had seen him fighting in earnest before, but never so close. If not for the fact that he was in danger, he would have enjoyed the sight. It was beautiful. Ulaz fought back, striking at Shiro's chest and neck, but his reaction times were bizarre, unusually delayed. Was he having this much trouble adjusting to the bond? His condition itself had made him underestimate the effect it was having on him.

"Shiro, it's Ulaz." Aware of his disadvantage in this battle—so unlike his earlier bout with Haxus—Ulaz attempted to reach out to the rational part of Shiro, the part that knew who Ulaz was and trusted him. If he could do that, he could calm him down. The problem was knowing how to make contact with the authentic Shiro. There was no reliable process for bringing someone back to themselves from a state like this. It was like lashing out in the dark—while Shiro was lashing out in return.

Shiro leapt up and threw his arms over Ulaz's head, an impressive move, considering their respective sizes. This maneuver put him at Ulaz's back, with the metal cuffs that bound his wrists together pressing against Ulaz's throat. With a sharp jerk of his arms, followed by a quick kick to his legs, Shiro destabilized Ulaz's stance, knocking him over.

Ulaz hit the floor. He found himself lying on his stomach, with Shiro choking him from behind, the cuffs an increasing pressure on his airway. It had happened so quickly—Ulaz had gained an uncomfortably close understanding of how Shiro's opponents in the arena must have felt, before their defeats. Shiro's attacks were an onslaught. The two of them struggled on the floor in silence. Neither of them made a noise, because neither of them wanted to draw attention to their fight. Ulaz couldn't call for the guards now. They wouldn't hesitate to attack Shiro if they saw the two of them like this.

Galra necks were strong, making them a difficult species to choke but they were not invulnerable. As the moments passed and the pressure intensified, Ulaz found it increasingly difficult to breathe. He couldn't allow this to continue, or his breath would be cut off entirely. He reached up to grab at Shiro's arms. As much as he disliked doing it, he sank his claws into Shiro's forearms, breaking his skin. He smelled blood. Shiro gasped.

The pressure on his throat lessened, and Ulaz took in a deep breath.

"What are you—" Confusion broke Shiro's speech into fractured phrases. "Where is—" His words were slightly slurred, but he sounded more like himself again. The vehemence had left his tone. "Why— Ulaz? Is that you?"

"Shiro," he said, withdrawing his hands from Shiro's arms. He had had no concrete reason to believe that he'd be able to break through Shiro's delirium through pain or any other means, so the sound of Shiro's genuine voice filled him with relief. 

"What am I doing? Did I hurt you?" Shiro was speaking quietly now, bewildered, but he managed to pull his arms over Ulaz's head smoothly enough, freeing him. Ulaz took another deep breath and sat up.

Shiro sat up too, regarding Ulaz with a concern that lit up his face, even in this dim prison cell. "Are you all right?"

"I'm well."

"I'm sorry—"

"You're not to blame," said Ulaz quickly. No Galra liked an unnecessary apology. Even warranted ones were given only in extreme circumstances. Ulaz glanced down at Shiro's arms. "I'll have to see to those puncture wounds," he said.

Shiro was not willing to move on to a new subject. "I think I nearly choked you to death."

"I was not on the verge of death."

"That's—reassuring. But Ulaz, I didn't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't."

Instead of responding to this comment, Ulaz went about his work. He examined the equipment he'd brought with him. None of it had been damaged when he'd fallen, fortunately. He had to account for any damaged instruments, as they were the property of the empire. Withdrawing the necessary tools, he set about healing the wounds he'd so recently inflicted on Shiro's arms. That was what he'd said he would do, and he saw no reason to delay.

"Is that all you're going to say about it?" Shiro asked.

"There is nothing else to say. It's finished. No lasting harm was done."

Shiro didn't argue with him. He was still and let Ulaz work. Ulaz let the silence grow between them. He didn't doubt Shiro needed time to rest and recover, and Shiro did appear to relax when the small holes in his arms started to close up. He had grown more used to Galra technology; he barely glanced down at the process. Ulaz was very aware of Shiro's gaze fixed on him, instead. "I'm wondering what you're thinking again," said Shiro eventually.

"Are you?"

"But then, I wonder what _I'm_ thinking, these days." Shiro made the noise that Ulaz knew expressed grim amusement, a contradictory emotion the human commonly expressed.

"My thoughts contain no hostility toward you," said Ulaz, while remaining fully aware of the many reasons he couldn't begin to tell Shiro what he was thinking. He doubted the day would ever come when he could be fully honest with him, but what he had told him was true.

"I know that. Don't you think I know that by now? Even if—I forget."

Shiro looked down at the floor. _Forget_ was a word that held more weight here than it usually did. Ulaz nodded. As he hadn't been trying to seriously injure Shiro during their conflict, the wounds he'd caused were not difficult to close up, so that was one task soon completed. "Let me try to neutralize whatever substances you may have been dosed with," he said. This was kind of a ritual for them. If they could be said to have a routine, it was Ulaz tending to Shiro, patching him up and relieving his pain. He could let himself be caught up in the currents of those customary actions. For a brief time, he could be carried away from the larger and less merciful reality that was bearing down on them.

Shiro nodded his agreement, but he wasn't willing to let the subject drop and move on into their routine. "I want you to know that I don't think of you as my enemy." 

"I know that."

"I may have once, in part, but that's long over. You're the only ally I have here."

His statement was correct, but Ulaz could not confirm it. "That's a dangerous word," he said.

"Ally? Yes, it must be, around here."

To become the ally of a prisoner would be tantamount to treason, among the Galra. Treason was a charge Ulaz was already guilty of, so he accepted that fact, without excuses. He continued to carry out his work, neutralizing the toxins in Shiro's bloodstream, watching the light emitted by the neutralizer wash over Shiro's smooth skin. He was becoming distracted again.

"Would you say the same of me?" Shiro asked. The agitation, which had been slowly draining from him, was difficult to ascertain now, although Ulaz could still detect traces of it in his eyes and his posture, and heard it in the slight edge to his voice.

"That you're my only ally? No, I wouldn't say that."

"Which means I'm not your ally—or that you have other allies."

"It could mean either, yes."

"You make me laugh," said Shiro, although he didn't laugh as he said so. "Even if I'm not your ally, I'll consider you mine. I wouldn't have survived this long, without you."

Taking into account all that had happened, Shiro's statement was factually true, so Ulaz did not contest it, but he didn't feel as if he should agree with it, either.

"Ulaz, I know you don't like to tell me too much, but can I ask one thing?"

Was that a playful comment on his careful speech? Ulaz wasn't sure, so he didn't remark on that. "You can. But asking alone doesn't win you an answer."

"Is that a Galra saying?"

"In a sense."

Then I'll start by asking—and you don't have to answer. Do you think there's a chance I'll stop remembering altogether?"

After a long pause, Ulaz inclined his head, answering in the affirmative, wordlessly. There was a chance, but there was also a chance that he wouldn't forget. Memory was more mutable and mysterious than the purely physical parts of a person. The physical he could deal with, confidently. Even Galra medicine hadn't mastered memories. Druids might be able to draw them out, but who could fix them, if they were broken?

This answer didn't please Shiro, but it didn't seem to surprise him either, because he nodded. "If I should attack you again, don't allow me to injure you. Fight me if you have to."

"I didn't allow it." There was more to it than _allowing_ , but Ulaz couldn't explain the internal forces currently at work on him. "You're a fine fighter. But I will consider my personal safety." He was being reassuring, but he wasn't being untruthful. He would consider his own safety, but there was a chance he would then instantly discount it. Ulaz was satisfied that Shiro's blood had been cleansed as thoroughly as it could be, so he put his neutralizer away.

Shiro reached out with his bound hands. Ulaz didn't draw back, allowing Shiro to grasp one of his hands with both of his own. At the contact, Ulaz's senses heightened. He was again hyper-aware of Shiro's scent, the sound of his breathing, and each small detail of the features of his face. There was a softness to Shiro's skin, especially his mouth, which was unlike a Galra's in shape, but the sharpness of him shone from his eyes. Their gaze was clear now. Ulaz felt like there was very little separating the two of them, and not only because they were close in terms of distance.

"Should we shake on it?" Shiro asked.

"Shake?"

"It's how some humans seal an agreement."

"Show me." Having agreed to the tradition, he allowed Shiro to "shake" his hand up and down. Shiro also lowered his head respectfully as he did so, and Ulaz gave a bow of his own in return, from his seated position.

"Then it's settled," Shiro said. "Take care of yourself."

"I won't take any risks I don't have to," said Ulaz, conveniently failing to mention that that meant very little, considering all the many risks that he would be obligated to take.

"That's what I want to hear. I can't afford to lose my only ally."

Ulaz held Shiro's gaze, then blinked at him, slowly. "I won't leave you."

Shiro's expression shifted into uncertainty, and now it was Ulaz who wondered what the other was thinking. Their hands were still clasped. Ulaz had meant to speak metaphorically, to say that he would not leave Shiro to his plight without any assistance, but he did not want to leave Shiro's presence in the literal sense, either. He would have been content to remain here, seated at his side until the guards came to see what was wrong—and then stay after that—but that wasn't going to happen. Ulaz released Shiro's hand, and Shiro tilted his head back to gaze up at Ulaz as he rose to his feet.

"Your condition has stabilized," Ulaz said. He had to leave before he became too unguarded, and before it became too difficult for him to make himself depart.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Shiro didn't appear to be convinced of that fact, and he had reason to be dubious.

Ulaz ached from his conflict with Shiro and his earlier fight with Haxus, but he did not see the pain as a detriment. If harnessed correctly, pain was useful. He would use the dull throbbing sensation of it to remind himself not to be more indiscreet than he had already been. "I'm sure. I must continue with my rounds, but I'll return when I can."

Fortunately, Shiro did not attempt to apologize for his aggression again. "You always do," he said.

So far, Ulaz had continued to return, but a day might come when he could not. What would happen to Shiro then? That question was not a new one, but it troubled him throughout the remainder of his rounds. He had been assigned to this position for a variety of reasons, and he had taken an interest in Shiro for a variety of reasons, but the situation could change. The situation _had_ changed. Another question he should have focused on was that of what he should do next, but he didn't like the options he'd already identified. He wasn't avoiding the issue. He was delaying it until a more opportune time. He did have tasks to focus on. As burdened as he was, he treated his patients with the same care and caution he always exercised. 

No, there was a case to be made to support the claim that he wasn't always cautious or careful. That was why he had made arrangements to speak with a sure ally, someone who understood the true nature of his work: both what he was supposed to be doing, and what he should have avoided doing.

The rest of Ulaz's duty shift felt unreal, but the pain grounded him. Every time he moved his neck, he was reminded of Shiro's arms around him. He knew Shiro better, after fighting against him and suffering injury at his hand. He had experienced another aspect of him. He would like to fight with him again, although preferably without any animosity between them. 

After he shifted from active work into less active readiness, Ulaz returned to his quarters. He stowed his equipment, changed his clothing, and made his way down the corridor to the place of his meeting: the training chambers, again. There, early and patient, was the familiar face he had been anticipating: Thace was waiting for him. His friend nodded a greeting, before belatedly saluting and offering a "Vrepit sa!" That part of the greeting wasn't strictly required when they were off duty, but it was a gesture that undercover Blades might perform as a wry, subtle joke. It was the empire that had originally perverted the usage of the phrase. When Blades used it with each other, they referred to their goal of striking a blow against the corruption and cruelty that had transformed their empire into a monster—and thus, their enemy.

He and Thace spoke little as they entered the training chamber together. As in Ulaz's bout with Haxus, the chosen mode of combat was hand-to-hand. He and Thace stood face to face, with nothing but themselves in the battle. It was the most ancient and primal form of combat, one that Galra had been engaged in since long before the beginning of their recorded history. Since before they had begun to call themselves Galra.

"Your timing is excellent," said Thace.

"I'm pleased you've noticed," Ulaz replied lightly. The presence of his friend was having a calming effect on him. His breathing came more easily. Maybe it was Thace's scent, which was reassuringly familiar. It washed away the more unsettling scent of Shiro and his blood, which had lingered with Ulaz long after they'd parted.

"It would be difficult not to," said Thace, who then immediately lunged for him. Thace grabbed him by the shoulders, and the two of them grappled. The touch increased Thace's overall easeful influence on him, even as Ulaz's eagerness to fight escalated his adrenaline levels. Combat both cleared the mind and raised the spirits. He and Thace were well-matched, and Ulaz didn't have to consider altering his fighting style to appear to be anything other than what he was. This was a free fight. It was the most energizing fight he'd had today, as there was camaraderie in it and no cause for concern. The concern would come after.

Ulaz and Thace moved with speed and force, but in relative silence. Each blow was answered with another in short order. It was like a conversation. Ulaz poured out his anxiety and hope, and from Thace came both reassurance and concern. Both of them expressed enjoyment—in each other's company, and in the sheer pleasure of moving and exerting force without restraint. There was no clear winner at the end; it was more of a mutual collapse. Ultimately, their struggles knocked the breath out of them and landed them both on the floor. There was no padding beneath them, only a hard smooth, dark surface with a grid of shallow grooves for channeling blood or other fluids. Only children's training rooms were padded. Thace rolled over onto his back, and Ulaz followed him, taking in a long breath.

As they lay together, the rhythms of their breath attained unison following their long exertion. Thace explained his earlier mention of timing. "I'd been about to make contact with you, but you were struck first."

Since Blades didn't contact each other lightly, Ulaz assumed Thace also had important news to share. Their speech here could be relatively unrestrained. Combat was a prized cultural expression of the Galra. There was some social liberation to be found in fighting, in that those of different ranks could engage in battle with each other. Practice matches were rarely monitored by the state. The Blade of Marmora carefully vetted locations they wished to use for private conversations, and this one was still deemed safe.

"You wanted to discuss the arena matches?" Thace asked. In spite of their relative safety, they weren't about to give up their coded speech. They knew better.

"I do. But first, why were you planning to contact me?" Ulaz was intending to tell Thace certain things, but when the opportunity to delay his admission came, he took it.

Thace didn't delay. "I'm receiving a promotion," said Thace, "to lieutenant of the first rank."

"An enviable post." Ulaz said that, but he didn't envy Thace his mission of ascending as high as possible through the ranks. Ulaz hadn't been given that task, because he wasn't judged to have the correct temperament for it. This was partly because his behavior during some of his missions, especially the earliest, had given him the reputation of a reckless operative. He wasn't seen as reliable, not in the way Thace was. Ulaz had reformed. He'd assured himself he'd left his youthful indiscretions in the past, but he understood why his assignments and Thace's were different in nature. "And well-deserved," Ulaz added. Not that Thace's military superiors would think that a spy and saboteur deserved a promotion, but Ulaz did.

"I'm going to be transferred to another ship," said Thace.

Such transfers were not unusual. A soldier's loyalty was first to the emperor and the empire, not to any one ship or commanding officer, so little was thought of moving personnel from ship to ship.

"This is promising news," said Ulaz. What the Blades wanted for Thace—a hope that neither of them mentioned now—was that he would eventually obtain a coveted role in Central Command. This promotion was a step toward that goal.

"I'll be leaving soon," said Thace, "but I haven't been given my transfer orders yet."

There would be no more meetings with Thace, no more practice bouts like this one. Ulaz would have no allies remaining within easy reach. Except Shiro, if he could call Shiro his ally. Openly, he didn't, but privately, he considered it.

"I'll tell you as soon as the orders are finalized," said Thace, in response to Ulaz's silence. "I may not be able to meet with you again before I depart."

If Thace was assigned to another ship, and from there, to yet another ship, or a star base, or Central Command itself, it was within the realm of possibility that Thace and Ulaz would never meet again. Their jobs were dangerous. Discovery was but one of the various threats they faced. Yet expressions of regret or loss were best avoided. "Then we'll have to fight again today," said Ulaz. They could enjoy this moment while they had it.

"We will," Thace agreed, "but that's not the only reason you asked me here, is it?"

"I must unfortunately inform you that I wasn't promoted," said Ulaz.

"That is unfortunate." 

Ulaz turned his head toward Thace in time to see him smile. Ulaz willed himself not to dwell on the possibility that this could be the last time he would witness such an expression on his face, or the last time he'd see his face. He considered it, but replied with a quick smile of his own. Blades had little use for such sentimentality—which brought him to the matter that he wanted to discuss with Thace. "If you've been following the battles," he said, "then you know Champion has continued to win."

"I do. I also know that he suffered a loss against one of the guards," said Thace, "but he had unexpected assistance in that bout."

Ulaz didn't need to ask how Thace was aware of what had happened to Shiro, and that Ulaz had intervened. It was likely the story was relatively widespread now, and had earned Ulaz both notice and enemies, not only the attention of Haxus. Even if the information had been more difficult to come across, Blades had ways.

"He did," said Ulaz. "I have been recognized by my accomplishments by both Commander Sendak and Lieutenant Haxus."

"What an honor," said Thace. "You're making your mark."

He was. How fortunate. He had touched on the subject he had to discuss, but he needed to cut deeper. "Someone else has made their mark," said Ulaz.

Thace couldn't have known what incident this statement referred to, and there was no suspicion in his voice when he asked, "What mark is that?"

Ulaz placed a hand on his chest, flattening his palm there, where the rush of blood was strong. "On me. I've reached a landmark in my life. I've bonded."

Thace did not have an immediate answer to this, but Ulaz could read his wordlessness as well as his words. The long pause from him was not unexpected. What else could he expect but disapproval? Bonding could be a cause for celebration, but neither of them was in a festive mood. "Does that mean what I think?" Thace asked.

"It is most likely what you think." Still careful, they didn't directly state the name or otherwise verbally reveal the identity of the person who was the recipient of his bond. 

"Again—?" asked Thace, and Ulaz knew Thace wasn't referring to anything _he'd_ done previously. He'd never bonded before. It generally wasn't something people did more than once.

"How could you risk this?" Thace asked, before Ulaz could respond. He didn't sound angry so much as bewildered. Ulaz felt the same, so he wouldn't resent him for that. He couldn't blame Thace for being displeased. Ulaz himself felt a strange, fierce joy in the connection that had been created, but at the same time he was fully aware of its drawbacks, so he wouldn't have said he was _happy_.

In some ways, bonding _happened_ , falling into place like any natural process, but Ulaz couldn't pretend it was an accident, or that he was blameless in having allowed it to come about. There were situations he could have avoided and feelings he could have been better at suppressing. He had to accept responsibility. He couldn't blame Shiro, who was truly innocent, as well as ignorant of what had happened. "I was incautious," said Ulaz, although that explained only part of it. There were aspects of this he didn't understand himself. There were other parts that he didn't want to reveal, like his loneliness, the conversations he had with Shiro, and the affinity that had formed between them.

"I know this is a complicated issue," said Thace. He had never bonded himself, but all Galra were familiar with how troublesome the process could be. There was sympathy in Thace's voice, which may have been more than Ulaz deserved, but he wasn't unappreciative.

"More so than usual, in this case."

"What are you going to do?" asked Thace.

"I'll limit my contact," said Ulaz, in spite of having blatantly defied that resolution in his earlier encounter with Shiro. It was a promise that was easy to make, but not so easy to keep, not when Shiro was in constant danger and had only Ulaz to assist him.

Thace wasn't satisfied with that answer, and he was right not to be. Thace was good at being right, but it was hard to take issue with him for that, because there was no superiority in his correctness. Only honest concern. That was probably why he'd been promoted. People tended to assume he was the kind of person who wouldn't stab you in the back. That was a rarity here. "If you're already bonded, that won't be enough."

"But I will do that. I'll have to. As for the rest, I'll endure it."

"Ulaz, I won't reprimand you. That's not my place. But you can't continue on like this. Something needs to be done."

"It does." This was why Ulaz had wanted to speak to Thace. First, to unburden himself—that was part of it, but also because he needed direction. He needed someone to tell him what he already knew.

"You have to make a full report."

Now the silence came from Ulaz, because Thace was right again, and Ulaz knew what the result of reporting his behavior would be.

Thace didn't ease up on him. He was a friend, but he was a Blade. "I'll have to report this, if you don't." He was neither forgiving nor gentle, but there was no unkindness in his intentions. Their missions came first, before personal feelings. Thace would hold him accountable. He would help him to do what Ulaz was finding so difficult to do on his own.

"I won't obligate you to do that. I'll do what I must." _Knowledge or death._ In this case, he had the knowledge. He had to pass it on to his superior. What would die? His connection. Not a literal death, but it would have to be cut off, as deep a wound as that would be. It wasn't a wound that a Galra could easily recover from, but there was no other way to proceed.


	8. The Real and Unreal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Shiro's dreams become more vivid, his reality and memory grow more tenuous—and his situation more dangerous. When Ulaz makes an unexpected admission, Shiro is inspired to offer a confession of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are only two more chapters to go! However, there is probably going to be a follow-up to this fic, which will—diverge more.
> 
> I'm also planning to go back through the previous chapters and edit for consistency, as well as make some minor changes reflecting things canon revealed only after I started writing this.

"I've always believed in you." As he heard those words, Shiro felt a reassuring hand settle on his shoulder. He let it rest there, absorbing the weight and heat of it, as if waiting for a calming medicine to take effect. He needed that touch.

"I know that," Shiro said, letting out a long sigh, followed by a smile that was only partly forced.

"We can do this, Shiro. _You_ can do this."

"Thanks, Doctor Holt."

Sam Holt smiled at him. "How many times have I told you to call me Sam? We don't have to be so formal right now."

"Oh, right. I know. Sam."

"No superior officers breathing down our necks." Sam laughed. It was a soft, pleasant sound, with the faintest hint of a snort at the end. His amusement deepened the smile lines around his eyes. Sam wasn't Shiro's father, obviously, but he had a paternal air that even Shiro could sense and enjoy. Despite Sam's great prestige, there was nothing arrogant or overbearing about him. He was a quiet person with a serene presence that Shiro appreciated, but even Sam's serenity could only do so much.

"Sam, I—" Shiro broke off. He scanned the thick blanket of darkness that could be seen in every direction, no matter where he looked. For the first time, Shiro thought to question their surroundings. "Sam, where are we right now? It's cold."

"We're safe," said Sam, "and that's what matters."

"I don't know—if that's all that matters." Shiro raised his head. At first, everything above them appeared dark, too, but no, not quite everything. Far, far up above, Shiro spied a faint, purplish glow. He didn't know what it was, but he shuddered at the sight. It was worse than the darkness. He looked down quickly, fixing his gaze on the darkness at his feet. Why was it so dark? Where were they? Were they anywhere, or was this _nowhere_? That didn't make sense. The more Shiro's brain tried to establish a sense of logic in his surroundings, the more his head hurt. 

"Shiro?" asked Sam. "What's wrong?"

Shiro didn't answer him, because another voice was speaking, from above. Shiro didn't look up, but he assumed that the sound was emanating from that ominous, purple light. _We need another test to determine if it is a suitable subject._ It was a woman's voice, low and dry and grainy, with a quality like sand running through a narrow channel. It was as if an hourglass could speak, and its voice was chilling. The voice was worse than the light, and Shiro shuddered again.

"Sam, I don't think we're safe here."

The voice went on: _It's primitive, but its strength is promising. We can augment it and make it useful._

"Definitely not safe," Shiro whispered, pressing his hands against his temples.

The voice was speaking to someone else, or appeared to be, because its next words were formed as a reply to a question. This one voice absorbed all of his attention, so Shiro couldn't hear the question, only the answer. _The defect? I can correct it. Of course._

Shiro felt small, and the voice was vast. He felt like an insect, being discussed by a person towering over him listening as they decided whether or not to squash him. He was unable to change the outcome of that decision. He was unable to do anything. He was that insignificant.

_I have a final trial prepared. We will see how it fares. This is the will of the Emperor._ The voice faded out and spoke no more, but when Shiro finally looked up again, the purple glow up above had not altered. It remained constant and unnerving. Shiro's chest tightened, and it was a struggle to keep breathing normally. He pressed his eyes closed.

"Where are you, Sam?" Shiro asked.

"I'm right here," said Sam.

Shiro didn't open his eyes. What he was seeing wasn't reality. If he looked at Sam, he'd be more likely to be carried away by the illusion—or hallucination or dream, or whatever it was. "No, you're not. I don't know where you are, but I know you're not here. Please, tell me where you are. I need to find you. I want to see you again."

There was silence from Sam. Complete silence, as if he had vanished. The strange voice from above didn't speak again, either. It had gone away, too. What was left? Was there anything or anyone left? Shiro's head was pounding. He crouched down on—not on the ground. It hadn't been ground he'd been standing on so much as a darkness that somehow was capable of holding him up. Maybe he wasn't crouching so much as curling, drawing his knees up toward his chest in the dark. Was he utterly alone in this formless place?

"I want to see you, too."

Another voice. Not Sam's, but also a very familiar voice—more familiar than Sam's. Shiro tried to resist its pull. A part of him, small yet strong, kept insisting that none of this could be real. Were these visions harmful or helpful? He couldn't say if they were sent to him by his subconscious in an attempt to preserve and bolster his sense of self, or if they were sheer escapism, a false comfort to ease him into giving up his fight. They might be caused by the drugs he was given, or be the result of some other Galra interference at work. Whatever their origin, he wanted to focus on what was real, to stay in the present, because that was where his greatest chance of survival lay.

"Shiro?"

For all his sensible reasons to focus on the real, Shiro couldn't help himself. His choice had been taken away by the simple, devastating identity of the owner of that voice. He opened his eyes and raised his head. "Adam?"

Shiro wasn't surrounded by darkness anymore. No, he was in one of the well-lit Garrison lounges, and he was crouching conspicuously on the floor, his tense position at odds with the ordinariness of the scene. Instead of darkness, he found himself in the midst of neutrals, with touches of orange and institutional gray. Adam was standing over him, holding out his hand. Shiro swallowed. His immediate impulse was to take Adam's hand, but he couldn't do it. His arm wouldn't move in the required direction. It stayed still, stiff. Despite his failure to reach him, Adam appeared real enough to Shiro, his eyes gentle behind his glasses, and his brown hair falling in his face. The part of Shiro that insisted all this was false began to dwindle, weakening in the face of someone so cared for. "I understand," said Adam. "You're angry with me."

"No, that's not it. I'm—" Shiro wasn't able to finish his sentence. The words he could have said caught in his throat. He could have tried to make peace. _I'm sorry. I was wrong._ He didn't know if he wanted to say those words. He didn't know if he meant them. 

"Try to understand where _I'm_ coming from," said Adam.

Shiro already understood, in part. Adam was frustrated, he was hurt. He very understandably felt like he was being put to the side. Shiro had known that, but while he'd sympathized with Adam, he had also understood his own position. He'd known how much time he'd had left. The doctors had managed to predict his decline with a fair amount of accuracy. They didn't know the number of days, but they had an estimate for the number of months. That brief span was all the time he'd had remaining in which to pursue the career he'd wanted for as long as he could remember. It was enough time for one last mission. One last dream fulfilled. After that, he'd have another type of mission ahead of him, a fight against inevitability and his own limitations.

"You can still change your mind," said Adam.

"No, I can't. You know I've already decided." In spite of everything, he believed he'd made the right choice, considering all the information he'd had available. Making the choice to go to Kerberos wasn't why Shiro had ended up here. The mission itself had gone smoothly. He'd passed his physical. He had performed every necessary task, without fail. No one on Earth could have foreseen the arrival of the Galra. Shiro knew these things. He could have explained them logically, so why was this wave of guilt crashing over him? 

Adam was still extending a hand to him. Finally, Shiro was able to exert his will and push his shoulder forward, propelling the rest of his arm along with it. He took hold of Adam's hand. It felt warm in his own. "I miss you," Shiro said. 

He half-expected Adam to disappear when he made this admission, but Adam instead pulled lightly on his arm, leaning back and helping Shiro to his feet. As Shiro rose, Adam smiled at him, and Shiro smiled back at him, automatically. It was so good to see him. "I want you to know, I'm not angry anymore," said Shiro. Shiro leaned in, drawing closer to Adam. He had to be real. Every last, well known and loved detail of him was there, including the way his hair curled into slight waves in response to changes in the weather, down to that tiny birthmark just below his ear. He even smelled like Adam was supposed to smell. Shiro raised his hand and settled it on Adam's cheek. 

The moment his fingertips settled on the smooth, brown skin of Adam's face, it shifted, as if Shiro's touch had cast a spell on it. The texture changed first, coarsening, and the color followed shortly, the warm brown cooling into purplish-gray. Adam's glasses vanished, his hair whitening and receding. His eyes flashed yellow. He wasn't Adam anymore.

Shiro gave a start at this unexpected transformation, but he didn't pull away. He wasn't as surprised as he should have been. He stayed where he was, his hand now resting on Ulaz's face, as Ulaz, from this very close distance, regarded him curiously. "I never intended to cause you anger," said Ulaz.

Shiro's chest was tight again, squeezing his heart and lungs, making his breathing and heartbeat feel like struggles rather than natural processes. He moved his fingers, tracing the line of Ulaz's cheekbone. Was this real? He'd thought Adam might be— He didn't know what to think anymore. Was he finally losing his grasp on reality? It might have been slipping away from him, as his fingertips explored the cool texture of Ulaz's face. Ulaz's skin didn't feel like a snake's skin, or like a lizard's, but it didn't feel human. Why would it? He was an alien. Once, such physical closeness with a Galra would have revolted and frightened Shiro. Now, it wasn't alarming, since it was Ulaz.

"I didn't think you did," said Shiro. "I didn't want to fight with you. You've been consistently kind to me—for some reason. You're so different from the others."

Ulaz's transparent inner eyelid slid briefly across his eyes, dulling the bright yellow for an instant. "Shiro," he said.

"Yes? What is it?"

"I'm not what I seem."

"Oh, you're—" Shiro lost the thread of his thought and fell silent. What was that supposed to mean? There were so many things it _could_ mean Shiro couldn't puzzle through all of them to decide on the most likely one. What he _was_ sure of already was that Ulaz was unusual for a Galra in his position, even if the specifics eluded Shiro. "I already knew that." Ulaz was taller than he was, and when Shiro leaned forward, his head came to rest against Ulaz's chest. Ulaz didn't give off heat to the extent that a human would, but Shiro generated his own heat, and he felt his body warm as he let himself settle against Ulaz. "I told you, I'm not angry with you."

"This behavior is novel," said Ulaz.

"I guess it is. It's not what I expected I'd do."

"I also did not expect it," Ulaz responded. He hadn't yet objected to Shiro's weight pressed against him, but he gave no indication of his feelings about this development. He must not have objected, because he allowed the contact, if without comment.

"There are so many things that happened to me that I did not, at any point, expect," Shiro felt inspired to confess. "This is one more to add to the gigantic and growing pile." Shiro surprised himself by laughing. He tilted his head back, meeting Ulaz's gaze. Ulaz was watching him with his usual unperturbable and impenetrable expression. It was a sight he'd come to enjoy, so reassuringly stable in an unstable place. Shiro then experienced another unexpected event to add to the metaphorical pile. His face heated, and he could feel a flush spread quickly across his skin. Warmth gathered in his throat and sank into his chest before continuing downward.

What—was _this_? What was he thinking? No—he knew what this was. It was a familiar feeling, and it wasn't good. That is, it could be good, but only under certain circumstances. It was not a good feeling to have when he was being held captive and fighting to survive. He could recall a similar moment. It had happened when he'd been enrolled in the Garrison as a cadet. He'd glanced across the crowded canteen, startling himself by meeting the gaze of some boy he liked— _Boy he liked?_ This was a highly trained member of a hostile alien military. Or—because Shiro didn't completely understand the Galra chain of command, this was at least someone attached to a hostile force, regardless of how _sympathetic_ he'd been. He certainly wasn't a _cute boy_ , and Shiro wasn't a lovestruck young student. He was an experienced officer who had been imprisoned by the enemy.

Shiro still couldn't be sure that Ulaz's attitude toward him wasn't some underhanded tactic of the Galra to win his trust—although granted, that technique was not in keeping with the Galra's utter disinterest in anything he had to say and their failure to regard him as someone who wasn't even worth being interrogated. With the exception of Ulaz, none of them had showed any signs of regarding him as an actual person. Ulaz might have been different—no, he _was_ different—but Shiro couldn't afford to have a close attachment to him. The emotion he was experiencing couldn't be natural. It was an effect of the extreme stress. Shiro was familiar with this phenomenon. In terrible situations, people under duress would reach out to the place of least resistance, forming unlikely attachments to whoever seemed kindest or most approachable. It was a side effect of the loneliness, distress, and pain. 

Shiro had enough distance from the situation to understand what was happening, but not enough to stop this inappropriate emotion from welling up. It was taking effect without his control, like a force of nature. It was so absurd and so out of place, he almost couldn't process it. There was no reason for him to feel this kind of affection, even if he understood how Ulaz's months of careful protection and patience could have inspired it.

"Shiro," said Ulaz.

Had he revealed enough of himself in his manner that Ulaz had realized something was wrong? "Yes?"

"Are you awake?" Ulaz asked.

"What?" That was an odd question to ask in this situation, and not a question Shiro had been expecting.

"Are you awake?" Ulaz repeated.

Realization washed over Shiro, slowly at first, then in a rush. He centered himself and focused. First, he concentrated on where he was, and then where he wanted to be. He opened his eyes. This time, he managed to do it. He woke up, in the real world: the bleak world of his cell, with its table and restraints. Above him stood Ulaz, the actual Ulaz, gazing down at him. Before Shiro could stop himself, he smiled.

Ulaz's head tilted slightly to one side. Was it Shiro's imagination, or, in the dim light, did Ulaz's mouth shift slightly upward at the corners? "There you are," said Ulaz.

"I'm here. Finally."

Ulaz was going through his usual steps of examination and neutralization, so Shiro didn't disturb him, lying still and staying quiet. He was glad to be truly awake, but he hadn't forgotten those vivid, hallucinatory dreams. He didn't want to think about them, but they were too stubborn to allow themselves to be pushed from his mind. First, there was the issue of Sam Holt. Where was he, and where, for that matter was Matt? If Shiro was going to escape, he would need to find them and bring them with him. They were his crew, and he couldn't leave them behind. His dream hadn't brought him any insights regarding their location, but it had pushed the question to the front of his mind.

As for Adam... That had hurt. Shiro had no doubt that Adam believed he was dead. Like everyone else on Earth must have. How many months had he been gone, now? Shiro had lost count of the days long ago. He would have liked to have closure with Adam, even if they never reconciled. Shiro had assumed he'd return. He'd assumed they could talk, with the added perspective the passing time had given them. He'd assumed he would see Adam again. The likelihood of that happening was shrinking, but Shiro hadn't given up yet.

Shiro had already been aware of his issues regarding Sam and Adam. The third person who had appeared in his dream presented him with another, new problem. Shiro wasn't prepared to deal with it. He didn't know how to interpret what he'd dreamed, but he felt calmer and oddly more content now that Ulaz was here, although that wasn't the only reaction he was having to Ulaz. Shiro couldn't explain how he could be both calmed and distressed by the same source at the same time, but in spite of his lack of explanations, he was currently experiencing that very phenomenon.

"Who were you talking to?" Ulaz asked.

"Talking—?" asked Shiro, caught off guard. He hadn't realized that he'd said anything out loud.

"In your sleep."

"Oh. Some people from Earth that I knew—that I know."

Ulaz nodded. He didn't often engage in casual conversation, and Shiro wondered what he had heard that had inspired him to ask his question. "Can you tell me about them?" Ulaz asked.

"Yes, I can." This further line of inquiry was more unusual, coming from Ulaz. It reminded Shiro of when Ulaz would count together with him, keeping up a regular, predictable rhythm between them. Usually, he did that to steady Shiro mentally, or to distract him from something else. Was that what he was doing? Shiro was trying to figure out why Ulaz might need to do that, as he started to answer the question. "There's Sam Holt. I've told you about him before. He's the scientist who was with me on the mission to Kerberos."

"I remember."

Was Ulaz doing this because Shiro's heart rate was elevated? It had to be something like that. If his physical reaction to Ulaz was noticeable enough for Ulaz to pick up on, he needed to steady himself and keep that part of himself under strict control. "I was asking him where he was. He couldn't answer me, of course."

"And what else?" Ulaz asked.

Shiro was reluctant to discuss Adam with Ulaz. He still felt uncomfortable about what had happened between him and Adam, but that wasn't the only reason for his reluctance. Discussing his mission with Ulaz was one thing, but being open about his personal life, especially his romantic life, would make Shiro more vulnerable. He did trust Ulaz to an extent, but his training and common sense told him that that kind of disclosure would be a mistake. Though it was painful to examine so closely, he went back over his brief conversation with Adam in his mind, trying to remember what he'd said to Adam and what he could tell Ulaz about him.

That was when he remembered: that voice like rough sand, speaking above him. He'd never seen that person's face, but remembering the voice summoned the coldness it had inspired. "There was someone—"

"Who?"

"Someone else. Talking. A voice. I don't know who it was, but I could hear them speaking in the distance."

"To you?"

"No."

"What did they say?"

"I—can't remember that." His strong emotional reaction to Adam, and then Ulaz, had erased the specifics from Shiro's mind. His memory had become too unreliable. It abandoned him at important moments. "They were talking about me, not to me."

"Was it a Galra who spoke?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure. I can't—" He wanted to remember. He struggled to go back there, to the pain in his head, and the low, ominous light. "I should—" Now that Ulaz was asking him about it, it seemed much more important, but his efforts had no result. He remembered only the texture of the voice and the cold creeping across his skin.

"Your vital signs are within acceptable parameters," Ulaz said, abruptly abandoning the subject.

Shiro stopped struggling. He was confronted by the thought that Ulaz was acting out of consideration for him. Maybe he should have kept trying to bring the memory back, but he needed to rest for a little while. His time asleep had tired him out. It looked like he wouldn't have to decide what to tell Ulaz about Adam, either. "Thank you."

Ulaz fell silent, watching him. Shiro watched him back. Not for the first time, Shiro was aware there were Galra social cues he was missing, little signals Ulaz was giving off that another Galra would have picked up on: body language, micro-expressions. This was what it meant to be an alien, talking to an alien. Talking to another human could be difficult enough.

"I am going to tell you something, Shiro," said Ulaz finally.

This announcement was as odd as Ulaz's earlier questions. Ulaz rarely prefaced his questions like this. "Go ahead," Shiro said. "I don't think I'd be able to stop you." Shiro wasn't currently restrained, but he wasn't feeling his best. He wasn't in any condition to battle with a Galra, although he would have to do so again soon enough. Too soon.

"I'm not what I seem."

Shiro all but lost his breath. Ulaz had said that to him in the dream, too. Had Shiro woken up from the dream into yet another dream? Shiro's heart rate quickened. No. He had to remain rational. He couldn't still be sleeping, but if he wasn't, how could he explain Ulaz saying the same thing to him a second time, in waking life? The best possibility Shiro could come up with was the idea that Ulaz had said that to him while he was sleeping. If Shiro had heard him then, the words might have inspired his subconscious to build them into the dream. He hoped that was it. His sanity couldn't take a series of increasingly more realistic dreams that made him continually question whether he was asleep or awake. 

It also was unlikely that he and Ulaz were so in sync that Shiro had been able to guess what he'd been planning to say. "What—do you mean?" he finally managed to ask.

"I can't explain myself, but I wanted to tell you that."

Oh. That didn't clear anything up. "Thank you for your honesty," said Shiro, for lack of anything better to say in response.

"That is one thing you don't need to thank me for," said Ulaz.

Did that mean he wasn't being honest, so didn't require thanks, or that he was glad to be honest, so didn't require thanks? Ulaz wasn't easy to follow, and that was likely Ulaz's intention. More enigmatic and more important were the words _I'm not what I seem_. Shiro felt like he was being confessed to, but he had no way of understanding the full meaning of the confession. What he seemed to be was a doctor, tending to arena gladiators, in conjunction with the military. If that _wasn't_ what he was, then what could he be? Shiro's heartbeat quickened again, for a new reason. This place was going to wear out his heart. He was coming up against too many uncertainties. Could Ulaz be working against the military? If so, then Ulaz was his ally on a level that was more profound than he'd realized. He wanted to believe that, but he shouldn't assume. He shouldn't hope. Ulaz could have meant something entirely different.

Another question was: why was he telling Shiro this? If he was deceiving his superiors, then telling anyone, even a prisoner, put him at greater risk. It was so unlike Ulaz.

Shiro had come to know Ulaz well enough that he could predict some aspects of his behavior. Ulaz wasn't one for small talk, and any words he did utter were bound to be significant in some way, if not always because of their literal meaning. His words were far less likely to be personal. Whenever he uttered anything that could be potentially revealing, this usually marked the end of his visit. 

Shiro expected Ulaz to leave shortly, but he didn't allow Ulaz the time to say he was going to depart. He started to talk. He wasn't sure, when he began, what he was ultimately going to say. "Do you remember what I was saying before, about the people in my dream?"

"I haven't forgotten." Ulaz wasn't the kind of person who was prone to forgetfulness.

"I have these dreams a lot—I've told you already." He must have. Ulaz didn't object to the statement. Now wasn't the time to doubt his own memories. "They feel real, and in them, I usually talk to people I know. They're not exactly memories, they're conversations."

Ulaz didn't prompt him to continue, but he was listening intently. Ulaz could stand so still that he redefined the concept of stillness, making Shiro realize that most people fidgeted more than he'd previously perceived. Ulaz's gaze was fixed on Shiro's face. Shiro continued. "This time, I was talking to Doctor Holt at first, but then he turned into someone else."

"Who was that?" asked Ulaz.

Shiro wondered if Ulaz had sensed his previous reluctance to discuss Adam, because he hadn't pressed for further information at that time. When had this Galra become so sensitive to his thoughts and moods? "My partner. That is, someone I was with in the past." He felt awkward saying this, not only because it was personal and still painful to speak of his relationship in the past tense, but because there was so much he didn't know about Ulaz and his own personal life. What kind of relationships did Galra have? Did they even have a concept of romance? It might have been better to avoid the topic altogether, but Ulaz's revelation had made him want to be open in return, to share something of himself. He wasn't hiding anything from Ulaz, so where confidences were concerned, he only had so many options.

"You're probably not interested, but—" Shiro hesitated. Ulaz didn't interrupt him to confirm that yes, he was uninterested. Ulaz continued to watch him, silent. "Before I went on the mission, he and I—stopped being together. I actually don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe I wanted to talk to someone about it." Was that it? Had his isolation driven him to unburden himself with revelations that meant little to Ulaz?

"Does it distress you?" Ulaz asked. "This severing from your partner?"

Ulaz's words indicated that he had at least a remotely similar idea of relationships. His reaction to Shiro's words was neither positive nor negative. Ulaz had mastered neutrality. Shiro admired him for that, but at the same time, he wondered what it would be like, if Ulaz allowed a strong feeling to take hold of him, move him.

"It still does, even if—I have more pressing problems to deal with now."

"It is nonetheless a problem. Such a bond is difficult to break." There was nothing in Ulaz's bearing to indicate whether he was speaking from personal experience, yet he appeared to be—sympathetic. He was willing to discuss the topic.

"It is." Shiro remained undecided as to whether discussing his relationship with Adam was making him feel better. "Difficult."

"Galra do know these trials, but we speak of them rarely."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised that you don't talk about it a lot."

If Ulaz realized he was making a mild joke about the Galra communication style, he gave no indication. "Your partner, severed or not, would be proud of your skill in battle," he said.

"I'm not sure if that would be his primary takeaway, if he knew what happened to me." Horror at the circumstances of Shiro's imprisonment would probably have kicked in before the pride. Not to mention sadness, grief— Shiro had to stop himself from imagining Adam's reaction too vividly. That wasn't going to do him any good. Yet he wondered, _Would Adam be proud?_

"You have survived where no one else could have," said Ulaz. "All of Earth should be proud of what you have done. You have done more for them than they know."

"That's—comforting." It was a Galra brand of comfort, but Shiro did appreciate it. Galra comfort was the only kind he had. He wasn't sure what Ulaz meant by saying he had done something for Earth's benefit, but that was another of those Ulaz riddles that Ulaz probably didn't intend to answer today.

True to form, Ulaz didn't elaborate on what he'd said, but moved on to ask another question. "These conversations you have in your mind," he said, "do they feel strange to you?"

"Strange—how?" They were odd. They weren't like the usual dreams he had on Earth, but Shiro had assumed that was because of the stress he was under, not to mention the alien environment and exposure to foreign substances.

"Would you say they feel like ordinary dreams?"

"No, not exactly." Was he getting at something? Shiro didn't mind answering him, but this line of questioning was starting to unsettle him.

"You've mentioned them before. How long have you been having them?"

"I can't remember that." He had assumed they were like fever dreams, that they were ultimately meaningless. He hadn't been keeping close track of them. His impaired memory would have made that difficult, in any case.

"Have you dreamed about me?"

That question was as unexpected as it was uncomfortable, considering the dream Shiro had so recently been having. "Yes, not a lot, but—I have."

"You should be careful about what you say, even in dreams."

"Ulaz—what does that mean?" Shiro accepted that Ulaz was enigmatic, but he had raised it to an art form, and not always an enjoyable art form.

"It means that your words and actions always have meaning," said Ulaz. "That is all."

Shiro didn't think it meant anything nearly that reassuring. How was he supposed to be careful of what he said in a dream? "You're going to leave now, aren't you?" he asked.

"Am I?"

"You always leave when you say something like that."

"I can never stay long," Ulaz reminded him.

"I know." said Shiro. "It's not that I think you should stay longer." No, he didn't think he should. He _wanted_ Ulaz to stay longer. He wished Ulaz could remain by his side for hours and keep him company. Was this connection between them the end result of Shiro's loneliness? He wasn't sure if it was that or another kind of attachment. If their situation had been very different, could they have been friends? Looking up at Ulaz's still neutral yellow eyes, Shiro asked himself, _Are we already friends?_

"I will return as soon as I'm able," said Ulaz. 

Shiro believed him.

"Remember what I've told you," said Ulaz, and his neutral expression briefly slipped. He frowned, and Shiro was now certain that he had been smiling, when Shiro had first awakened. Shiro felt slightly pleased with himself for managing to read the subtle language of Ulaz's emotion.

He was less pleased by his own answer to Ulaz's request. Shiro wished he could promise to remember. Once he could have, and easily, but now he could only say, "I'll do what I can."


End file.
